


Harry Potter and the Chamber of the Basilisk

by elumish



Series: Creatively Maladjusted [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Politics, Wizarding Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-08 03:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14096433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: “I’d like to see you try.”“Would you really?” Harry leans forward, until his mouth is almost against Draco’s ear. Draco is breathing hard. “Do you really want to try this power struggle against me?” he whispers. “Because once I take the power away from you, I might not give it back.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for this taking ten million years to be started. This chapter 1 is actually not even the original chapter 1, but the original got scrapped. Updates, particularly for the next couple months, might be somewhat scattered because of exams and essays, but I just wanted to get this up.

Harry’s stomach grumbles.

He thought he had adjusted to having less food, as long as it’s been since he left Hogwarts, but the normal minimal food from before the incident was practically a feast compared to what he’s been getting since the house elf incident.

With that in mind, he takes another bite of the slice of bread and chunk of hard cheese. He’s been trying to ration it out through the afternoon, because that’s all he’s going to get until Aunt Petunia puts a cold can of soup or stew through his door’s cat flap tonight.

Hopefully.

He’s let out once in the morning and once at night for the toilet, and a quick glance in the mirror while he’s been scrubbing some water through his hair to make it feel a little less disgusting shows that he’s lost the weight he gained at Hogwarts. He’s doesn’t know what Hermione and Draco will have to say about that, but on the other hand he doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to get out to go to Hogwarts. The Dursleys haven’t said anything about letting him out to go to Hogwarts, and he can see them keeping him from going out of spite, but on the other hand it’s a way for them to get rid of him.

He’s wondered, sometimes, why they don’t just get rid of him. Drive him out into the woods and leave him there, or dump him in London. It would have been easier when he was little, before he knew where he lived or their names beyond “Aunt Petunia” and “Uncle Vernon”. 

When he was little, he used to dream of that, of then leaving him somewhere and some nice family finding him. Someone who looks more like him, maybe, or a couple that couldn’t have kids and really wanted them and so took him in and was happy about it. He even imagined getting hugs when he was younger, and having someone who would let him call them Mum who tucked him in when he was sick.

He goes to sleep uneasily, hungry and exhausted, and dreams that he’s in a cage, legless and armless like a snake, and he can’t manage to crawl his way through the cage bars even though they’re wider than his head, and someone is rattling the bars, but he can’t see them no matter how much he turns his head.

“Stop,” he says, caught somewhere between sleep and waking, with only enough presence of mind to keep his voice down, face stuffed in his pillow. “I just want to sleep.”

He tips over into the waking side, though, opening his eyes to moonlight streaming in through the wars on his window. But there’s something else there, too, and Harry leans over to grab his glasses, smashing them on his face. Peering through his window, he sees...Ron, hair washed out in the moonlight.

Harry blinks at him, then tips himself off the bed to stumble over to the window. “Ron? How--what the hell--” His eyes focus on what’s  _ past _ Ron, and it’s Fred and George, the beaters from the Gryffindor team and Ron’s brothers, and the three of them are in a hovering turquoise car, floating in the air next to the Dursleys’ house.

Fred-or-George smiles at him. “All right, Harry?”

“Why haven’t you been answering my letters?” Ron demands before Harry can say anything. “I wasn’t expecting Hermione-levels of letters--there have been a  _ lot _ \--but I’ve sent you at least a dozen letters, and then Dad said you got a warning from the Ministry…”

“I--” Harry shakes his head. “I didn’t do it, what they said I did. And why would he know about the warning, anyway?”

“He works for the Ministry. Look, we can figure all this out later, but we’re getting you out of here.” He gestures towards George-Fred, who tosses the end of a rope at Harry. Harry catches it, not sure what exactly he’s supposed to do with it.

“Tie it around one of the bars,” George-Fred says. “And then get out of the way.”

The bars come off with a screech that Harry winces at, and then Fred and George are heading downstairs to grab his school stuff, one of them patting him on the shoulder as they go past. He’s not really sure why they’re here, being Gryffindors and all, but maybe just being Ron’s friend is enough.

They get out of the house with only minimal screaming from Uncle Vernon, though Harry’s pretty sure when he comes back for the summer they might just lock him in the room for the whole summer. He’ll have to figure out how to stock up on food, maybe, beforehand. Maybe there are potions that will make him not have to eat as much.

Ron keeps up a steady stream of conversation as George-Fred drive them through the air, and it fades to a drone to Harry’s ears. He’s exhausted now that the adrenaline has faded, and the hunger has left him still a bit lightheaded, a little fuzzy.

This all feels a little surreal, being in a flying car with the Weasleys, heading somewhere. To their house, probably. He thought, if anyone would drag him out of the Dursleys, it would be Draco, though Draco blows hot and cold, so maybe Draco doesn’t really care about him, or forgot about him, or got mad when he didn’t get any of Harry’s letters.

It’s a while before Ron asks, “Why didn’t you ever send me a letter back? You can’t have had those bars on your windows the whole summer.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, I--a house elf was stealing my mail. They said they didn’t want me to go back to Hogwarts, that if I thought nobody wanted me, I wouldn’t want to go back.” Which is ridiculous. He hadn’t thought anyone wanted him when he went the first time, and that didn’t stop him. He’d do almost anything to get away from the Dursleys.

“Whose house elf do you think it is? Rich families have them, you know, the Malfoys and the Notts, old pureblood families. Neville’s family might have one, too.”

Harry laughs. “I don’t think Neville’s going to try to keep me out of Hogwarts.” He shakes his head. “I really don’t know. Dobby--the house elf--said he’s not from Hogwarts, but he could have been lying. He kept hitting his head on things, so maybe he...broke his brain, lost it and decided to go after me.”

“Well, you are Harry Potter,” Fred-George says, turning around to grin at him. “Looking a bit peaky there, though, I have to say. Not quite worth having a whole house elf dedicated to you.”

“They’re only for rich families,” George-Fred adds.

“Though.”

“Of course.”

“You are Harry Potter.”

Harry scrubs a hand across his face. “Thanks. I really appreciate your...view of my worth of being stalked by a house elf.” He sighs. “Not to sound ungrateful, but--you’re Gryffindors.”

“What, you think Gryffindors can’t drive flying cars?” Fred-George asks.

“No, but you’re--I mean, we’re Quidditch opponents. Enemies.”

Fred-George shrugs. “You got a Weasley sweater. That makes you practically family.”

Harry feels something warm inside of his chest, and he presses a hand there. Family. He’s never had someone say that about him, not and mean it in a good way.

“And we wanted to try the car,” George-Fred adds.

Fred-George looks back at Harry. “I wonder if Dad will notice we added another one.”

“If we figure out how to dye his hair red.”

“Then maybe we can pass him off.”

“A cousin?”

“Or just replace Percy.”

The car takes a sudden dip, Harry’s stomach swooping, and then they hit the ground, the car shuddering and shaking around them. He presses his hands to the seat back in front of him, holding on to keep from bashing his head against the window.

“There,” George-Fred says cheerfully. “Safe and sound. Now we just need to get inside and upstairs really quietly, and tomorrow morning you can come down the stairs going, ‘Mum, look who turned up in the night!’ and she’ll be so pleased to see Harry that she won’t question how he got here.”

That’s not an option, apparently, because even before he’s done saying that Harry spots a woman stomping across the grass towards them. She’s coming from an oddly-shaped house, with a small footprint but tall and haphazard, not particularly straight. It looks absurd and like the most magical thing Harry has ever seen outside of Hogwarts.

George-Fred swears under his breath, as Fred-George says, “Oh, dear.” Ron just turns very, very pale.

“ _ You three _ ,” Mrs. Weasley snaps. “Do you have  _ any _ idea what could have happened to you--missing, disappeared at the middle of the night, with your father’s  _ ridiculous _ car. Wait until your father comes home and hears about this. Never, in all my days. Not Bill or Charlie or Percy…”

“Perfect bloody Percy,” Fred-George mutters.

“You would do better if you followed your brother’s lead.” Mrs. Weasley finally seems to notice Harry, and her face lights up. “You must be Harry Potter. Oh, you’re so  _ thin _ . Come in, come in. How are you, dear?”

Harry feels himself flush a little, not sure what to do with an adult who’s clearly so happy to see him. “I’m, uh. I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you for the sweater, by the way. It’s really warm.”

“Oh, of course, dear.” She starts to usher them into the house, though George-Fred pauses to grab Harry’s trunk from the car.

“Suck-up,” Ron snickers from beside him as they walk, and Harry turns to scowl at him. He holds up his hands in surrender at Harry’s look, grinning at him. 

“I’m sorry to show up unannounced,” Harry says as they file into the house. The inside is  _ brilliant _ , disorganized and cluttered and more full of life than the Dursleys’ house has been cumulatively across Harry’s entire life.

Mrs. Weasley starts puttering around the kitchen, pulling out pans. “Oh, no, don’t be ridiculous. It’s hardly your fault. And besides, we were considering finding you ourselves if you didn’t respond to Ron’s latest letter. It’s hardly as though we can’t fit another person,” she adds as what looks like a dozen eggs crack into one of her pans. “With Bill gone, and Charlie. My boys.”

George-Fred, yawning widely, rolls his eyes, and Harry smothers a smile.

Instead, he asks, “Do you--would you like help?” They already got him out of the Dursleys, and Mrs. Weasley just have to cook for so many people even without Harry there.

But Mrs. Weasley just shakes her head. “No, no, I have it. Thank you for the offer, though. Fred, George, Ron, you could take a wand from Harry’s tree, there. Offering to help. So polite.”

Harry turns to blink at Ron, mouthing, “A wand out of my tree?”

He’s not sure if Ron can’t tell what he’s mouthing, because Ron just blinks at him, shrugging. Harry will have to ask Hermione, if he remembers. Or maybe Draco can explain it to him. Draco’s more likely to know, but he’s also more likely to laugh at Harry for not knowing.

He has to write Draco, he realizes, and Hermione, That’s going to be a nightmare, because they’re both going to be mad at him, and Hermione is going to lecture him and Draco is going to freeze him out. But at least he has Ron.

Mrs. Weasley gives him a whole plate of sausages and eggs, urging him to eat, eat, you’re so thin. Harry sees George--he’s pretty sure he’s George--smirk at him when Mrs. Weasley isn’t looking, but George stuffs a sausage in his own mouth when Mrs. Weasley turns to glare at him.

A girl in a nightgown comes stampeding down the stairs when Harry’s partway through his second sausage--his stomach won’t be able to handle much more than this, so he might dump the rest on Ron’s plate and hope nobody notices. She spots Harry, pales, squeaks, and hurries back up the stairs.

Baffled, Harry looks at Ron. “Is it Slytherin that she’s afraid of?”

Ron snorts. “Hardly. Ginny hasn’t shut up about you all summer. ‘I want to meet Harry Potter, when will I get to meet Harry Potter, can you tell me about Harry Potter.’”

Mrs Weasley swings around, wooden spoon jabbing at Ron, and Harry has to cling on to the table edge to keep from flinching and ducking. “Be kind to your sister,” she snaps.

“Sorry, mum,” Ron mumbles, but George’s eyes are fixed on Harry. Hurriedly, to keep from showing anything else, Harry shoves half a sausage into his mouth and then has to work to chew it. It settles like a lump in his stomach.

When the girl comes back down, she’s in what looks like casual robes, threadbare and patched but in what looks like a good attempt at being maintained. Harry picks at a thread at the hem of his own shirt and feels a certain kinship towards her.

At some point later, with a soft crack, a man with the same red hair as the rest of the family appears outside the house, pulling the door open and entering with a tired smile. 

Mrs. Weasley beams at him. “Arthur. Just in time for breakfast.”

The man--Mr. Weasley, Harry assumes--smiles back. “I thought I wouldn’t ever make it home. Someone’s been selling cursed teapots to muggles, and we spent two hours trying to extract a muggle from  _ inside _ the teapot.” He looks at the table and apparently for the first time notices Harry, who shrinks down a little in his chair and hopes Mr. Weasley ignores him. Tired and upset with work never go well with him. But Mr. Weasley stares at him, asking, “Who is this?”

Before Harry can respond, Fred says, “This is Harold.”

“Our second cousin,” George adds.

“You don’t remember Harold?”

Mr. Weasley blinks at Harry, then mumbles, “Right, Harold.”

Mrs. Weasley sighs. “This is Harry Potter, Arthur. Our  _ sons _ flew your  _ car _ to his house during the  _ night _ .”

Mr. Weasley’s eyes light up, and he turns on George. “The car, it flew? How did it handle? Did the--the engine, did that work the entire time? I wasn’t sure if the magic would interfere with--”

“ _ Arthur _ .”

“Right.” Mr. Weasley clears his throat. “I’m very disappointed in you, boys. Very disappointed.”

Ron laughs, then almost swallows his tongue when Mrs. Weasley turns his glare on him. 

“So.” Mr. Weasley accepts a plate from Mrs. Weasley and then sits next to Harry. “You grew up with muggles, yes?” Harry nods, not sure where this is going. Nowhere good, probably, given that they’re purebloods, too.

But then Mr. Weasley, around a bite of egg, asks, “What can you tell me about electricity?”

\--

“Mrs. Weasley?”

Mrs. Weasley looks over from the stove where a pot with vegetables is being stirred to smile at Harry. “Yes, dear?”

Harry bites his lip, then says, “I was wondering—would it be okay if someone met with me here? I would go somewhere else and meet them, but I don’t know how to get anywhere else, and—”

“Of course. You can tell them to floo to the Burrow; it’s open, so they’ll be able to get in.”

Harry’s not really sure what any of that means, but Caster probably will, so he nods and thanks her and goes off to write a letter to let her know. Hedwig gets back the next day with a letter confirming that she’ll come the day after. Harry tucks the letter carefully in his trunk, finding himself smiling a little.

The next morning, after breakfast, Mrs. Weasley shoos all of the kids away with orders not to bother Harry—which Ron takes with ill-grace until Harry promises to tell him about it later—and then stands in front of the fireplace. Harry’s not really sure what the fireplace has to do with anything, but Mrs. Weasley seems to, and he figures she knows best.

Just as the clock is chiming ten, the fire flares green, and then Caster unfolds herself from it, straightening out and brushing ash from her robes. Harry gapes at her.

She doesn’t seem to notice, though, offering a hand to Mrs. Weasley. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Annabelle Caster with the Wizengamot.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyebrows go up, and she looks at Caster with concern. “Is Harry in trouble?”

Caster glances at Harry, then shakes her head. “No, not at all. I just need to talk to him privately, which can be difficult now that I’m not longer at Hogwarts. I was one of his Prefects.” She smiles, and it looks a touch wrong on her face, like she’s replicating something she learned from somewhere else. It’s not how she smiles at him.

“Of course,” Mrs. Weasley says, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to talk here, or outside. I’ll make sure the boys stay away from you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Finally, Caster turns and smiles at Harry, and it’s the real smile. The right smile. “Hello, snakelet. How are you doing?”

Harry nods. “I’m fine.”

“Shall we?”

They head outside, and Caster looks around at the open space all around the Burrow, then drops down on the ground, sprawling on the grass. She sighs, patting the ground next to her. “Come on, snakelet, sit. You look like you think I’m about to attack you.”

Harry sits, feeling a little bit of wetness from the morning dew sink into his clothing. It feels nice; the sun is already hot overhead, and after a second he flops down next to her so his head sinks into the grass, too. There’s a rock under his leg, but he ignores it.

“So,” she says after a second, “a house-elf kept you from getting your mail?”

Harry nods. “He thought if I thought I didn’t have any friends, I wouldn’t want to go back to Hogwarts. But that’s not true. I would always want to go back to Hogwarts. Hogwarts is all I have.”

“Oh,” she sighs, and he thinks she sounds sad. Which doesn’t make any sense; he just said how much he likes Hogwarts. That shouldn’t make her unhappy. Unless she’s thinking about how much she misses Hogwarts, too, and is sad about not being able to go back. Which makes sense. He can’t imagine what he’ll do once he’s too old to go there anymore.

“I don’t know if he was a Hogwarts elf,” Harry adds. “I don’t think so, but I’ve only seen the Slytherin house elves, and he could be one of the other ones.”

“I doubt that. Hogwarts elves don’t leave the school, as a rule.”

That means the house elf is probably from somewhere else. But that doesn’t tell Harry much, because he has no idea how or where has house elves. Maybe the Ministry has them, or wizarding families. The Weasleys don’t seem to, but that might just be because they have enough children that they don’t need to.

“Regardless,” Caster says, “what are you now doing at the Burrow? Is this a vacation from your relatives?”

Harry snorts out a laugh before he can help himself, throwing his arm over his eyes to block out the sun. “I guess it’s that. I got in trouble for using magic even though it was the house elf, and so my relatives locked me in my room, but then Ron and Fred and George came and broke me out. So yeah, I guess it’s a vacation from them.”

“Your relatives,” Caster starts, and her voice sounds so wrong that he sits up and looks at her. “Your relatives locked you in your room for the use of underage magic, magic you didn’t even actually use?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes narrow, and her face is that hard, steady blankness that she does sometimes, and that some of the other Slytherins do, and he needs to learn how to do that, he thinks. Maybe she can teach him. Once, of course, he figures out what’s wrong with her now. “How frequently have they done this?”

“That was the first time,” Harry tells her. Her shoulders relax, some of the hardness on her face easing a little so she looks more human and less ceramic. “It used to be the cupboard, but when I got my Hogwarts letter, my first Hogwarts letter, the Dursleys moved me to Dudley’s old room because they thought someone was spying on me.” He lays back down, squinting up at the sky. “I wonder if I would still fit in the cupboard. Probably, I guess. I don’t think I’ve grown that much.”

“Your relatives used to lock you in a cupboard?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “I used to live in the cupboard. They would lock me in a lot, but mostly when I did something freakish like regrow my hair or teleport to the roof of the school. This was a lot longer, though.” He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable with talking about this. “They put you on the Wizengamot, right? It wasn’t a problem that you could get in contact with me?”

Caster is silent for a minute, then says, “No, it wasn’t a problem. The paper you signed and blood you provided gave proof of identification, and the magic was set as soon as the paperwork was submitted. I’ve been on the Wizengamot since the start of the summer. Mostly, I’ve been watching to learn the alliances and relationships between Wizengamot members. I’ve also been introducing the idea of the legislation that you want to get through to see who’s interested, as well as working on drafting a bill for it. My plan, unless you have any opposition to it, is to send you a copy of my proposed bill when I’m done with it so you can give any thoughts you have any it and any changes you want to make, and then I’ll introduce it to the Wizengamot. Does that work for you?”

Harry nods. “That’s fine.”

“Along with that, there is legislation that is and will be voted on that I want to confirm with you before I vote on. I can abstain from any vote, but any action I take—including abstaining—will go on the record as coming from you. All legislation to be voted on is provided to us at least two weeks beforehand, so I can send you a copy of the legislation when I get it, along with a summary so you don’t have to read all of it. In regards to general topics, you can also give me set ways to always vote, so I won’t have to check with you. For example, if you always support banning the sale of dragons in Britain, you can tell me and I’ll always vote for banning dragons in Britain, unless I think there’s something else you would care about in the bill. Are you okay with that?”

Harry nods again, then adds, “That seems like a lot of work for you, writing up summaries for me.”

Caster laughs. “It’s my job, snakelet. It’s what I’m being paid for. As your representative on the Wizengamot, it is my sworn responsibility to represent your interests on the Wizengamot. To do that, I need to know what your interests are, and for that I have to provide you with enough information to form and convey your opinion. The situation is a bit odd because you’re a child and don’t seem to have any adult who can help you with this other than me, but that makes it my job. And I knew what I was getting into, agreeing to do this.”

Harry picks at his sleeve, not looking at her. This all makes him feel so weird, the idea of some adult, someone who matters, putting all that energy into doing something just so he understands. The idea of people—adults—caring about his opinion, it’s…wrong. “And that doesn’t bother you? That you have to do this for a child?”

“Snakelet.” She touches his shoulder, and he jerks a little, not expecting it. He’s gotten more used to friendly touch, but that’s at Hogwarts, in the Slytherin common room, not here. “Potter. Look at me for a minute.”

It takes Harry a second, and then he sits up and looks at Caster, who’s staring at him with something he doesn’t understand in her eyes. “Yeah?”

She moves her hand from his shoulder to the side of his head, touching his hair. He doesn’t move away from her even though he feels like he should, because it feels good. “I don’t know what’s going on in your home life, and I’m not going to make you tell me, though you can if you want. But I need you to understand something. Anything I’m doing—with you, for you—I’m doing because I want to. If I did my job badly, it would reflect badly on me, regardless of whether I was doing it for a child or Lucius Malfoy. And I want to see you succeed, because you’re a good kid, and I like you. If I didn’t want to be doing this, I could have found myself another job. I didn’t have to accept your offer, and I knew what I was doing when I did. So stop worrying about whether my doing my job will inconvenience me or turn me against you. Okay?”

Harry nods, ducking his head. This all feels so  _ wrong _ .

She tucks a finger under his chin, pushing it up so he has to look at her. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” She lets go, leaning back to give him his space. “Now the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. If something happens again, if something goes wrong, I want you to get in contact with me. If you’re locked up by your relatives, if they stick you back in the cupboard—”

“They won’t.”

“If they do. If they do something they shouldn’t, or if you have some other issue, owl me about it. If necessary, I can come to the school and talk to you. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” She ruffles his hair. “So, the Weasley Mum thinks you’re in trouble, eh?”

“Hey, you’re the one who introduced yourself as being from the Wizengamot. That’s not my fault.”

“I’d have thought you’d have told them.”

Harry shrugs. “it’s not really something I knew how to bring up in conversation. And it feels weird, you know. Having this power. Especially because they’re not--” He waves a hand at the Burrow. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

“You do know that it’s not a secret, right? The information is openly available.”

Harry nods. “I’m not trying to keep it a secret. I just don’t want them to think I’m bragging about what I have.”

Caster hesitates, then nods. “Do you have what you need, then? For school? I heard you’re having Gilderoy Lockhart for your Defense professor this year.”

Harry shrugs. “I think we’ll go after the letters arrive.” He curls up a little on himself. “Thanks for coming. Here, I mean.”

“Of course, snakelet. And I’m serious. If you need anything, or if your muggles lock you up again, you tell me. You understand me?”

Harry nods. “I understand.”

Caster smiles, hand ruffling his hair. “It’ll all work out, kid. You’ll see.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Ron confronts Harry as soon as Caster is gone, when Harry walks into the bedroom he’s sharing with Ron to store the sweets Caster slipped him in his trunk. He doesn’t look angry, exactly, but close enough that it makes Harry’s shoulders rise, that defensive part of his brain telling him to be careful.

“Why did you have someone from the Wizengamot here?” he demands from where he’s sitting on his bed. He’s hunched over a little, one leg dangling off the bed. “Fred and George said she’s your old Slytherin prefect, but I don’t know why she’d be here. Unless it’s something about the house elf thing.”

Harry crouches down to stick the sweets in the trunk, ducking his head a little. He supposes he should have told Ron about the Wizengamot seat before, but at first they weren’t telling anyone, and then it didn’t really seem to matter, and it also feels a little weird, because he knows that Ron doesn’t get much from his family money-wise. But he has to tell him now, so he says, “You know the Potters have a Wizengamot seat?”

“I…” When Harry looks up, Ron is frowning. “I guess. I don’t really don’t anything about who has what seat. What, is she whoever they put in charge of the Potter seat?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

“Caster is, um. She’s my regent for the seat. She’s who I put in charge of it, to vote for me, until I’m of age.”

“Oh.” Ron is silent for a moment, chewing on the cuticle of his thumb as he thinks. “You’re not in trouble, then?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. Or, well, not with her, at least.”

“That’s good, then.”

Harry hesitates, then asks, “It doesn’t bother you, then? The--the Wizengamot seat thing?”

“Nah, not really. I mean, I’d like people listening to me, you know, but all that politics stuff seems boring. And, I mean, that’s all you’ve got from your family, right? No offense, but I’d take having a family, mate.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “me too.”

\--

The plan is to go to Diagon Alley as soon as their Hogwarts letters come, and Harry is a bit surprised to see his letter come with everyone else’s, because he’s not sure how Dumbledore knows to send his letter to the Weasleys. But it’s probably the same way the letters knew he slept in in the cupboard under the stairs: magic.

They have to buy all of Gilderoy Lockhart’s books--meaning he probably is the new Defense teacher like Caster said--and Harry can see the look Mrs. Weasley exchanges with Mr. Weasley at that. Because the Weasleys don’t have much money, and those are a lot of books, and they’re probably expensive, and Harry would offer to buy some of them for them, but he doesn’t want them to think he’s mocking them and get mad. 

It’s nearly noon when they all manage to gather in front of the fireplace, with Mrs. Weasley passing around what looks like a container of ash that everyone is taking a bit of and saying, “Everyone have some, everyone got enough?”

Harry takes a bit of ash with everyone else, though he wonders of it’s some sort of odd religious thing, like those people who would come in to school with ashes on their heads on Ash Wednesday.

When nobody seems to be doing that, he turns to Ron, asking, “What are the ashes for?”

“The--” Ron blinks at him. “Oh. This is floo powder.” When Harry still doesn’t look like he knows what’s going on--because he doesn’t--Ron says, “Right, sorry, you wouldn’t know about this. It’s a sort of traveling thing, like a Portkey, but you can go to any other fireplace on the floo network. Mum, Harry doesn’t know how to use the floo.”

Everyone turns and looks at Harry, which isn’t really what he wanted, but then Mrs. Weasley bustles over, saying, “Oh, of course, how silly of me. What you’re going to want to do--Arthur, why don’t you go first, show how it’s done--is step into the fireplace and throw the floo powder down and say, very clearly, ‘Diagon Alley’. Be careful that you say it very clearly, or you might coming out of who know what floo.”

Mr. Weasley steps into the fireplace and does exactly what Mrs. Weasley said, and then in a flash of green fire he disappears.

Harry recoils, but nobody else sees to think that there’s anything wrong with their father going up in flames and then disappearing, so it must be like the barrier at Platform 9 ¾.

“You can go next, Harry dear,” Mrs. Weasley says, but when he hesitates Percy steps forward and says, “I’ll go next, Mum.”

He does the same thing, stepping into the fireplace and, enunciating clearly, says, “Diagon Alley”.

With a look at Ron, Harry steps into the fireplace, throws down the ashes in his hand, and says, “Diagon Alley.”

It is nothing like the barrier at 9 ¾.

That sort of travel, it’s just like taking a step, but this is whirling and fire and rushing all around him, and then he comes tumbling out of a fireplace, hands closing around his shoulders to keep him from smashing his face on the ground.

“Rough the first time, isn’t it,” Mr. Weasley says, righting Harry and brushing him off. When Harry looks around, he sees they’re in The Leaky Cauldron with half the room staring at them. Mr. Weasley pulls Harry away from the fireplace just in time for Ron to come propelling out of the fireplace. He wipes a sooty hand across his face and grins at Harry.

“Come on,” Percy says to Ron, “don’t block the floo.”

Ron makes a face at Harry but steps out of the way anyway, over to where Harry is. “How’d you get to Diagon Alley last time?” he asks, “if you didn’t floo?”

“Oh,” Harry says awkwardly, realizing he never told Ron this story. He’s not sure if he told anyone it, actually. “Hagrid took me. He had to go get me from where my relatives were, uh, hiding from the letters, and then he took me here.”

The last Weasley steps--Mrs. Weasley, brushing off her dress--steps out of the fireplace before Ron can answer, and they’re summarily herded through to Diagon Alley.

“Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley says, “why don’t you take Ginny to get her wand and trunk, while I take the boys to the apothecary to stock up on the potions supplies they need.”

“We don’t need any more supplies,” Ron puts in. “So can Harry and I go to Quality Quidditch Supplies? Just to look?”

Mrs. Weasley hesitates then glances at Harry and says, “Okay, boys, the two of you can go there. But only there, and come meet us at Flourish and Blotts when you’re done.”

“Why can’t I go too?” Ginny asks.

“Because you need to get a wand,” Mrs. Weasley says, “and everything else you need for school. Off you go now, and be quick, boys. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”

Harry and Ron hurry off towards Quality Quidditch Supplies before Mrs. Weasley can change her mind, Ron saying, “I just didn’t want to be stuck in the apothecary with Percy. He’d spend the entire time talking about how unicorn horns need to be regulated better or some other nonsense.”

“Why?”

Ron waves a dismissive hand, almost hitting someone as they push through the crowds into the shop. “He’s aiming for a Ministry job and wants get ready early. It’s insufferable to live with, not that he’s ever been much better. Are these dragonhide gloves?”

Harry turns his attention over to where Ron is looking, and within minutes they get caught up in a discussion about the merits of different types of gloves in quidditch. Apparently the Prophet reported on some new glove development that’s supposed to make catching the quaffle easier, and there are debates over whether it should be regulated, and Ron is grinning by the time Harry has to admit that he just doesn’t know that much about catching quaffles. 

“Admitting to a weakness to a Gryffindor?” a voice drawls behind them. “I’d have thought being in Slytherin hadn’t taught you anything.”

Harry turns to see Draco standing nearby, arms crossed, a smirk on his face. “Hey, Draco.”

Draco’s lips thin. “We’re using first names now, are we, Potter?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“After ignoring me all summer,” Draco says, “and disdaining to respond to a single one of my letters, I simply assumed you no longer considered me a friend.”

“I didn’t--I told you, a house elf--”

“Was stealing your letters, yes. What’s next, a kneazle ate your homework? Don’t insult me by lying to me.”

Ron lurches towards Draco, saying, “He’s not a liar.”

“As though I’d trust your taste,” Draco sneers, “particularly after your father just assaulted mine.”

“What?” Ron blinks at him. “When?”

Draco glances at Ron, then puts his best pureblood smirk on his face to say, “Just now, of course, in Flourish and Blotts. Not that I know why your family would bother to go there in the first place. Can hardly afford a single book, can you, much less enough for that whole overbred family of yours.”

Ron lurches at Draco, and Harry has to hastily grab him to keep Ron off of him. “He’s just trying to rile you up,” Harry says, then looks at Draco to say, “It’s one thing to be mean, but you can’t even manage to be creative about it.”

Draco flushes a little, then says, “You’d best figure out who your real friends are by the time we get back to Hogwarts, Potter. It’ll be a long six years for you with me as your enemy.”

Before Harry can respond, Draco flounces off, out of the shop.

Ron spends a minute staring after him, face red, breathing hard, and then he says, “One of these days I’m going to punch that smug git right in his pointy face.”

Harry sighs. “We should probably get to Flourish and Blotts, shouldn’t we? If your family’s already there, I mean.”

Abruptly, the blood drains from Ron’s face. “Bloody hell.”

It takes them a few minutes to get to Flourish and Blotts, particularly because they have to push through bigger crowds than usual around it, but they find the Weasley family clustered near the exit, just outside the shop. Mrs. Weasley looks particularly upset, and Mr. Weasley has just a speck of blood on the outer corner of his lips. 

“ _ Where _ have the two of you--” Mrs. Weasley starts, and then she clamps her mouth shut, looking too upset to continue. Finally, after a moment of breathing, she says, “Inside, the both of you, and buy your books quickly.”

They hurry in to do so without a word, Harry with his hands shoved in his pockets so nobody can see them shaking. He knows she’s not going to hurt him, but having her be mad at him, it’s hard not to think of Aunt Petunia. Not that she’s anything like Aunt Petunia, but it’s his fault that they were so delayed, or partly his fault, and if he hadn’t talked to Draco--

“Oh, hell.”

Harry turns to look at Ron, who’s looking down at the pile of books in his hands with dismay. They’re in line to buy them, but it’s long; it looks like there’s a hastily deconstructed area where someone had been speaking, with the words  _ Gilderoy Lockhart _ in scrolling golden letters floating there.

“What’s wrong?”

Ron’s shoulders hunch a little, and he says, “Mum forgot to give me money for books. I don’t--I have a couple knuts for sweets, but not--”

“I got them.”

Ron’s head comes up, his cheeks turning pinking. “No, you don’t--I don’t need you to--”

“It’s not charity,” Harry says. “There’s no way I’m going to read through all of these, so if we split them up you need a copy too.”

“I--are you sure?”

“Do you really think I want to read through”--he glances at the title on top, which is over a man with the whitest teeth Harry has ever seen--“ _ Magical Me _ ? This looks horrifying. So that’s the deal--I buy your books, and you read it for me.”

Ron hesitates, then grins and says, “Yeah, okay. But only this one. The rest of them, I’m asking Hermione.”

Relieved that Ron isn’t going to keep arguing, Harry says, “Deal.”


	3. Chapter 3

The Weasleys, Harry has learned, are not prompt.

It’s not that they’re slow, but there are just so many of them and so many things to wrangle, that they always seem to be later than they intend. Harry has all of his stuff packed the night before, not that he has much to pack, but it’s really just a matter of rearranging to get the new books and such to get it all to fit.

He still has his previous year’s books, too, and so his trunk is actually starting to get a bit crowded, but he can figure that out when he gets to Hogwarts.

He thinks--not for any particular reason--that they’re going to be flooing to King’s Cross, so it’s a surprise when Mr. Weasley leads them to the car that Fred and George and Ron had gotten him from the Weasleys in.

Looking at the masses of stuff they have with them, Harry asks, “How can this all--”

“Don’t tell Molly,” Mr. Weasley says, then taps the boot with his wand. When it opens it, it’s massive, like it’s the size of the entire car. “It’s just a bit of tinkering, you see. With this many children, this is so much easier than half a dozen Side-Alongs. Less chance of someone being left behind. How  _ do _ Muggles do it?”

“Uh,” Harry hoists his trunk into the boot, settling it off to the side. “Bigger cars, I guess.” Or fewer children.

Mr. Weasley claps his hands. “Wonderful.”

From across the field, Harry hears Mrs. Weasley shout, “Go on, now, or you’re going to be late!”

\--

They are late, or at least Harry and Ron are, the barrier closing just as Harry collides with it, and the two of them go sprawling. Harry can feel bruises coming up from where he hit the ground, and he gives himself a second to just breathe through the pain.

Ron is swearing as he picks himself up, but Harry just settles for some slow breathing as he pulls himself upright to prod at the barrier. Closed.

“Do you know what happened?” Ron asks as he walks over and pokes at the barrier a bit himself.

Harry shakes his head. “We missed it. Too late, I guess.”

“How did we--”

Harry sees a London Regional Transport person heading over to them and says, “Not here.” 

They head off to the side, Ron asking, “What do we do now? We can’t just not go to Hogwarts. Oh, Mum’s going to kill me.”

“We--”

“The car.”

Harry blinks at Ron, confused. “The car?”

“Yeah, Dad’s car. We flew it before--or, well, Fred and George did, but I was watching--and it can definitely get us there. C’mon, Harry.” Ron jerks his head towards the doors. “If we leave now, we might catch the train.”

For one brief, stupid moment Harry considers it, but then he shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Ron demands. “It’ll be easy.”

“Because if we get caught, McGonagall won’t expel you. And if you  _ do _ get expelled, you have somewhere to go back to. I just have the Dursleys.”

Ron stares at him for a moment, then makes a face. “Right.”

“’ll just stay here,” Harry says. “The parents have to come back through, right? Or someone will notice I’m not there, I guess.”

“Well, I’m going,” Ron tells him, grinning a little. “This year it’ll be me everyone in Gryffindor talks about, not Fred and George.”

Harry grins back. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, mate.” He takes off out of the station, leaving Harry alone.

Harry’s pretty sure they won’t let him just sit next to the column with all of his stuff—and he thinks it would likely be a bad idea—so he heads back to the main area and sits down on the floor with Hedwig next to him on one side and his trunk on the other side and watches the platforms.

\--

It’s gone six when Snape stalks across King’s Cross to where Harry is sitting, curled up, against the wall. He’s dressed in black pants and a black shirt—muggle clothes, Harry thinks, but they fit oddly on him, kind of like how Harry’s clothes fit on him. Like they weren’t his originally. He stops in front of Harry, and Harry fights the urge to hide from his fury, instead uncurling himself to stand up.

“What,” Snape snaps in his just-above-a-whisper, “do you think you’re doing here?”

Harry swallows. “The barrier closed, sir. Early. Ron and I, we couldn’t get through.” He thinks of something. “Ron, did he get there okay?”

“Mr. Weasley arrived in a flying car, damaging school property and breaking his wand in the process, then came spouting the same preposterous explanation for why the two of you had not arrived with the train.”

“It’s true, sir, we—”

Snape’s eyes flash dangerously. “Do  _ not _ interrupt me, Mr. Potter. As I see it, you found your taste of fame last year, but knew nothing would live up to killing a professor, so you cooked up this plot with Mr. Weasley to ensure all eyes would be on you.”

That’s not fair, Harry thinks—it’s not like he wanted to kill Quirrell, and besides, Quirrell had been trying to kill him and steal the Stone. And it’s not like he wants people to pay attention to him. But he doesn’t want to argue with Professor Snape, because it never goes well for anyone who tries. And he probably already has a million detentions from this, even though it wasn’t his fault; he doesn’t want any more.

Snape makes an impatient gesture with his hand. “Well, Mr. Potter? Is there a reason you are a still standing there? Planning to waste more of my time? Let’s go.”

Harry grabs his stuff, and Snape pivots and starts stalking towards the exit; Harry has to hurry to keep up, trying to juggle all of his stuff. He probably should have sent Hedwig off to the school, he thinks suddenly, but it’s too late for that now.

Once they’re outside and a little bit away from the exit, Harry almost tripping over himself to keep up, Snape ducks into an alleyway, reaching out to grab Harry’s arm and drag him in as well. His grip is too tight, like Uncle Vernon’s, and Harry presses his lips together to keep from making a noise. “In here, Mr. Potter. I have no intention of staying here any longer than necessary.” With efficient fingers, he undoes Hedwig’s cage, neatly avoiding her attempt to peck at him. “Hogwarts,” he says to her sharply.

Hedwig sends Snape a baleful glare, hops out to rub briefly against Harry’s cheek, and takes off. As soon as she says something, Snape says something that shrinks all of Harry’s stuff so much Snape can stick it all in one pocket, and then he latches on to Harry’s arm again.

“Have you Apparated before?”

Harry blinks up at him. “What?”

With a sneer, Snape says, “Don’t pull away,” and then the world twists, flattening Harry out and pulling him apart while jamming him through the world’s thinnest tube, and as soon as they land on the other side he drops to his knees, retching onto the grass. All that comes up is bile.

Snape lets go of his arm with a hiss, and he presses his hands against the ground to steady himself. “Get up,” Snape says disdainfully. “I don’t have all day.”

Harry spits one last glob of bile into the grass, his mouth tasting acrid, then struggles to his feet. He’s shaking.

Snape stares down at him, barely waiting until he’s on his feet before striding away. Ahead of them is the castle, Harry sees, the further away than he’s seen it, and not from this angle. He’s not really sure why they didn’t teleport or whatever they did directly into the castle.

He’s sure Hermione knows, though.

Slipping a little on the wet grass, Harry hurries to catch up, shaky legs unhappy with Snape’s pace. He keeps his eyes on the back of Snape’s snapping robes, which stand out as dark even in the fading light of the setting sun, and just walks.

When they get to the castle, Snape keeps walking, away from the Great Hall that’s bustling with noise even though the closed doors, and Harry has to jog to keep up with him. “I will not reward you with the attention you so clearly desire,” he says when they are halfway down to the dungeon. “You will be provided food in the Common Room, and there you will stay. If I hear that you are wandering, you will have detention from now until the end of the year.”

Harry’s a bit surprised he’s still going to get food, given how angry Snape is with him, though he’s certainly glad; he hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, expecting to be able to buy food on the Hogwarts Express and not wanting to eat more of the Weasley’s food than necessary. They’d already done so much for him, taking him in and letting him stay, and he didn’t want to take advantage of that.

Zonky the house elf is the one who brings him food, after Snape deposits him and his un-shrunk luggage in the Slytherin dormitory, and when she appears Harry says, “Hi, Zonky. How was your summer?”

Zonky squeaks, blinking at him with wide eyes like she has no idea how to answer a question like that. Finally, she asks, “Harry Potter is asking Zonky about Zonky’s summer? Harry Potter wants to know about Zonky’s summer?”

Harry shrugs. It hadn’t seemed like that big a deal to him. “Yeah. I don’t know what house elves do here during the summer. It must be lonely, with everyone gone.”

“Oh no,” she says, “the teachers is still here, some of the teachers, and there is still many rooms, and we house elves don’t see the students so it is not lonely, Harry Potter, no.”

Harry smiles. “That’s good.” Then he thinks of something. “Zonky, is there a house elf, a Hogwarts house elf, named Dobby?”

Zonky blinks at him, then says, “There is being no Dobby, Harry Potter. Not in the Slytherin House, or the other Houses, or in the kitchen.”

Harry had sort of figured that, considering that house elves didn’t leave Hogwarts and Dobby definitely had been outside it, but he didn’t think it could hurt to ask. “Thanks, Zonky. And thanks for the food.”

Zonky gives him a stern look. “Harry Potter is needing to eat more. Harry Potter is too thin.” She disappears with a pop, then reappears a second later while he’s in the middle of sitting down, a plate with treacle tart on it. She sets it pointedly down next to the rest of the food. “Harry Potter is eating all of the food.”

Harry nods. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

“Good.” Zonky disappears again, and Harry waits for her to pop back with whatever other food she thinks he needs. When she doesn’t, he shrugs and starts eating.

\--

It’s not too long after Harry finishes eating and his dishes are disappeared that the door opens and the Slytherins stream into the dungeon. He’s reading his Potions book, curled up in an alcove near one of the windows to the Lake.

A number of the people eye him when they walk in, particularly the firsties, and he hears one of them ask, “Who is that?” and another one say, “Maybe he’s a house ghost.”

Harry grins, closing his book and sticking it under his arm. He heads over to Draco and Blaise and Theo, who are clumped in a corner. Draco looks like he’s pointedly ignoring him, but Blaise nods, saying, “Hey. Thought you might have gotten lost along the way.”

“Did the house elf keep you from the Hogwarts Express, too?” Draco asks nastily.

Harry opens his mouth to say of course not, when it strikes him that the answer is maybe. There isn’t a better explanation for what happened, not really. So he just says, “I missed it.”

“With Weasley, I assume. Cavorting with blood traitors, are you?”

“Piss off,” Harry snaps.

“What house elf?” Blaise asks. When they both look at him, he says, “If you’re going to have secret conversations, you should have them somewhere secret. In the meantime, I want to know why we’re talking about house elves.”

Before Harry can answer, Draco says, “Potter claims the reason he never replied to my letters is because a house elf stole his letters. The absurdity.”

“What reason would I have to lie about that?” Harry exclaims.

“To save face, maybe. A handy excuse.”

“In what way, exactly, is that a handy excuse? I know how absurd it is, why would I ever make it up? Why would I--why am I even bothering to explain this to you? You clearly don’t care what I have to say.”

A hand tugs at the back of his robes, and when he turns around he sees a firstie, who tugs his hand away quickly. “Are you the house ghost?” the firstie asks, and Harry realizes he’s the one who asked the question when they first walked in.

“Potter’s not Slytherin enough to be the house ghost,” Parkinson says, brushing past to wrap an arm around Draco’s. Draco looks briefly uncomfortable, but then he smiles pointedly at Harry. Harry’s not really sure what point he’s trying to make.

The firstie’s eyes go wide, and he asks, “You’re Harry Potter?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you live in the school? There are theories that you live in the school, because nobody knows where you live, and they said you weren’t on the Hogwarts Express, and you were here when we got here, so you could live here.”

“I wish,” Harry says, “but no, I don’t live here. What’s your name?”

“I’m Peter. Peter Shafiq.”

Harry blinks at him. “Oh. Are you related to Max?”

The firstie nods enthusiastically. “I’m Max’s cousin, but they’re the heir and I’m from one of the side lines.” He lowers his voice to say, “My dad married a half-blood, but they say you’re a half-blood, so I thought it was okay to tell you.”

Harry nods. “I am a half-blood.”

“Okay, out of here, firstie,” Pansy says haughtily. “We don’t need you bothering us.”

Peter grins at Harry, then hurries back over to the rest of the firsties. Harry turns back to the rest of them, asking, “Who else did we get?”

“We have Crabbe’s cousin, a pureblood from the continent--”

The door swings open, and everyone falls silent as Professor Snape stalks into the room. His eyes don’t stop on Harry as he surveys the room.

His speech is identically to that of the previous year, but Harry takes in more of it this year, now that he’s not distracted by fear. This time, he hears Draco’s snort at Snape’s instruction regarding blood slurs, which isn’t a great sign, but of all the issues he’s having with Draco right now, that’s not the one he’s going to focus on right now.

He’s not really sure how to fix what’s going on with Draco. He can’t really blame Draco for being mad, but it’s also neither his fault nor something he can particularly change. And he wishes Draco were more forgiving, but that’s not really in Draco’s nature. It took Draco a while to get over whatever he saw in the mirror, and that wasn’t even remotely Harry’s fault.

Whatever it is, Harry will figure out how to deal with it, but not right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only up so fast because like half of it was already written. Don't expect updates to be so fast in the future.


	4. Chapter 4

Ron gets a screaming letter from his mother the next morning.

While Mrs. Weasley’s voice is berating him for stealing Mr. Weasley’s car and driving it into the Whomping Willow, Draco turns to Harry with a sneer, saying, “And this is who you chose over me?”

Harry resolutely chews on his piece of toast, pausing just long enough to say, “Yes.” He didn’t actually choose Ron over Draco, not really, but he doesn’t really want to have to explain everything to Draco again. It’s not worth it, not if Draco isn’t going to believe him.

It’s almost as startling when the letter falls silent as when it started, like a half-second echo of Mrs. Weasley’s voice screaming through the hall where everyone is caught up in listening to the letter and hasn’t realized that it’s stopped.

“Well,” Draco says with a laugh, “that was fun. Surprised they can afford a howler, or an owl.”

“Will you stop with the bloody Weasleys?” Blaise groans. He looks like he didn’t sleep the night before and is cradling his pumpkin juice like Uncle Vernon sometimes cradles his coffee when he has too much beer the night before. “Pick on some Hufflepuffs for a change. I really don’t want to listen to another  _ year _ of you whining about how ‘Potter likes Weasley more than me, what does Weasley have that I don’t have, he’s so  _ poor _ .’”

Draco’s face turns red, and he gathers up his bag, snapping, “I’m going to Charms.”

Harry waits until Draco flounces away before looking over at Blaise to say, “Thanks.”

“Nothing to do with you, Potter, but you’re welcome anyway.” Blaise drains his pumpkin juice, making a face at it. “Ugh, why do we have to get up so early?”

“It’s not that bad.” Harry still wakes up too early, which is annoying but gives him a chance to do schoolwork before people are up and making noise and distracting him. He knows his Housemates think he’s basically a Ravenclaw in snake’s clothing, but that’s really not what it is. He’s not into knowledge, not like Ravenclaws seem to be. But if a bruise potion is what makes living with the Dursleys a little more bearable, or doing well keeps his Housemates liking him, if his life is better if he does better, he’s going to work for it.

“Not that bad,” Blaise says skeptically. “C’mon, Flitwick will kill us if we’re late to Charms.”

Harry is afraid Draco will be insufferable during Charms, because he tends to be when he’s annoyed or feels like people aren’t paying enough attention to him, but instead he just picks a seat far away from Harry and resolutely ignores him. It might be supposed to be some way of punishing Harry, but Harry doesn’t really feel like dealing with Draco’s mess right now, so he doesn’t really care.

After Charms they have Herbology with the Ravenclaws, and if Harry never has to hear another baby mandrake it will be too soon. But Draco seems to have relaxed a bit by lunch, even though he’s keeps letting Pansy hang all over him and then shooting glances at Harry. Harry thinks maybe they’ve become friends over the summer. It’s frustrating not to know anything that happened over the summer, because he was so out of contact with everyone. It’s not like starting over again, but there’s all that time where he just has no idea what happened or what changed.

They have Defense after lunch, and he realizes as soon as they get to the hallway that the Gryffindors have it with them, too. Ron and Hermione are off to the side, talking about something, and Harry heads over to them.

Hermione gives him a bright smile when she spots him, bounding over to wrap him in a hug. Harry almost flinches away, not expecting it, but at the last moment he catches himself, hugging her back.

“I was so worried about you,” she says, half-scolding, as she pulls back to look at him. She frowns. “You look too thin.”

“I ate lunch,” Harry says defensively. “And breakfast, and dinner last night.”

“Still.” She stares at him again, then throws her arms around him again. “When I didn’t hear from you, I thought something had gone wrong, and then that letter you sent saying the house elf had stolen all of your mail. I didn’t even know what that  _ meant _ , and I had to look it up, and there’s almost nothing about house elves, and what did you say its name was, the house elf?”

“Uh,” Harry says, disentangling himself from her grip. “The house elf, he said his name is--” There’s a tug on his sleeve and, without thinking, Harry says, “I’m not the Slytherin ghost.”

“Oh, I know,” an unfamiliar voice says, and when Harry turns around there’s a flash and the sound of a camera going off. “You’re Harry Potter,” the voice says, and when Harry’s vision clears he sees it belongs to a boy, clearly a first year. A Gryffindor, from his robes. He’s holding what looks like a muggle camera, though Harry’s not really sure what wizarding cameras look like. “I’m Colin Creevey. I asked to be in Slytherin so I could be with you, because I know all about you, but the hat said I have be in Gryffindor, but that’s okay, because they’re nice there, and I still saw you, and that’s really excited, and can I have your autograph.”

Harry blinks at him. “Um.”

“Can I have a picture with you, too?” Colin asks. “Wizarding pictures  _ move _ , did you know that, and I’m trying to figure out how I can make my pictures move, because having a picture with you that  _ moves _ would be  _ so cool. _ ”

Ron is clearly trying--not very hard--not to laugh behind Harry, but his amusement drops away when Draco saunters over to snap, “Piss off, firstie. Nobody needs your kind, here, bothering us.”

“His kind?” Hermione asks sharply, and Draco shoots her a nasty smile.

“Muggleborns, Granger. Stupid little muggleborns, sticking their nose in where they don’t--”

“Oh, well, what is this?” Lockhart sweeps in between them, brilliantly white smile on his face, and Harry would thank him for breaking that up if he thought the man had actually intentionally done that. But from the look on his face, he’s about as conscious of what was going on as Colin had been. “Are we taking photos, now? Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter, I understand your desire to please your fans. It must have been so hard to restrain yourself and not try to pull all of the attention yesterday during arrival--not that you would have been able to, of course, but you’re young, still, you’ll learn. But not right now. This is a hallway, after all, and, by Merlin, we’re all nearly late for class. But later, young fan, you can have a picture with both Mr. Potter and myself, and won’t that be even more of a treat.”

Colin squeaks, hurrying off down the hallway, and Ron widens his eyes pointedly at Harry. Harry shrugs in response. He’s not going to do that, if he can help it, but he’s also not about to start arguing with a teacher in the middle of the hallway before their first class even starts.

He’s going to make a comment to Hermione, not that she is as willing to make jokes about professors, but when he glances over at her, she’s staring at Lockhart with even more adoration than she usually has towards teachers, her cheeks pink.

Weird, he thinks, because usually she has pretty good taste. But there’s a chance he could be a good teacher, Harry thinks, even if he seems like an idiot.

And anyway, Harry’s bigger concern right now is Draco, who seems to have mostly just gotten taller and meaner over the summer. Harry really wishes he knew why, wishes he hadn’t been out of touch all summer so he could have seen when Draco got just this mean, but he doesn’t know how to find out now.

There’s a little part of him that doesn’t want to, even though it’s only been a couple of days of dealing with meaner-Draco, because Draco doesn’t seem to want to be his friend.

But they’re going to be living together for the next six years, and Harry  _ does  _ want to be his friend, and he’s not going to give up quite that easily. He doesn’t have enough friends to just give one of them up.

Defense is somehow both astonishingly worse than Harry could have ever predicted and entirely unsurprisingly bad given that last year their professor had Voldemort attached to the back of his head. Lockhart might have done a lot of stuff--and Harry is immediately skeptical that he actually  _ did _ some of those things--but he is undeniably an idiot.

The first exam is all about him, his likes and his dislikes and his favorite color, and Harry briefly contemplates just writing the most obscure muggle things he can think of for every question he doesn’t know the answer to. Which is basically all of them.

All he can hope is that this isn’t a sign of what the rest of the year will be like. He wants to learn this sort of stuff, and he definitely won’t be able to if Lockhart is as inept as he seems.

Blaise is the one sitting next to him, when last year it was often Draco, but it’s fine, because Blaise makes sarcastic comments under his breath at the absolute stupidest of what’s going on.

\--

Flint finds Harry the next night, when Harry is sitting in the window ledge that only he seems to like to use as a seat doing homework. He drops a paper on top of Harry’s Potions book, saying, “Here’s the training schedule. I’m not making you try out again because I’m not an idiot. Your friend Malfoy wants Chaser and has offered us new brooms, so I’m probably going to give it to him, but you’re the one who knows him. He able to do it, you think?”

Harry hesitates, then shrugs. “I’ve only seen him fly during class, first year, but he seemed good enough. At flying, at least.” Harry chews on his thumbnail. “He’s a bit of a prat, but…”

“All you kids are prats,” Flint says dismissively. “I’ll make him try out, but I’ll probably give it to him.”

“Okay.”

“Tryouts are this Friday. You don’t need to try out, but I’m going to make you fly.”

Harry has no problem with that. He misses flying, and he’d never say no to another chance in the air. Especially now, while the weather’s still nice, or nice enough. “Sure. Oh--I don’t need a new broom, though.”

“You’re turning down a better broom, Potter? Really?”

“I’m used to the one I have, and unless the other seekers get new brooms, I’m not worried. The Gryffindor one seems as likely to fall on the snitch as catch it before me.”

Flint shrugs. “Suit yourself. We’ll keep it in reserve, then, in case we need an extra. Well, see you Friday, Potter.”

Harry nods. “See you.”

\--

It’s storming on Friday, which is not ideal for playing, but Harry troops out to the pitch with his broom anyway, fully drenched by the time he gets there. He’s not the last one there, but there’s a small crowd already, including Higgs, who looks him over, then ruffles Harry’s hair.

It flops wetly back in his face, spattering his glasses with even more water, and he glares at Higgs through them as Higgs laughs. “You need to learn how to keep your glasses dry,” Higgs says. “And yourself.” He pokes Harry’s forehead. “Magic, Potter. You’re a wizard.”

“No,” Harry says dryly, “I thought I just got here by accident.”

“Brat. You get any practicing done, over the summer?”

Harry looks away, his throat closing. “I live with muggles. It’s not like there’s a lot of opportunity to go flying around Surrey.”

Higgs stares at him for a minute, then says, “Better get in the air, then. Though, first--” Pulling out his wand, he does the spell to keep water off of Harry’s glasses. “You know how to do a warming spell, or you need me to do that, too?”

“I can do it, thanks.” Harry does a warming charm, then another charm to keep his glasses stuck to his face while he flies, and then he takes to the air after Higgs.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed flying, but now, in the air, it feels like freedom, like nothing else. He spends a while just flying around, darling around the goalposts in increasingly close spirals until he can practically reach out and touch it. Some stupid part of his brain is tempted to do just that, even though he knows that, as fast as he’s going, he’s liable to break his arm doing it. Especially if he misjudges the distance even a little.

If he breaks his arm, Flint will murder him, and then Professor Snape will laugh at his corpse.

Eventually, Higgs flies over, and Harry slows near him to hear him say, “Flint wants to start soon. Actually he wanted to start five minutes ago, but you looked like you were having fun, so he’s been having them fly laps.”

“Oh.” Harry feels his face heat up, and he hurries over to where Flint and the rest of the team are hovering. “Sorry,” he says when he reaches them.

Flint shakes his head, watching the half-dozen people flying back and forth between the goals and the halfway line. “Need to watch them fly, anyway.”

“What spots do you need to fill?”

“Chaser and Beater.” He looks at Higgs. “You play Keeper. I want to start with them just trying to score on you, move on to passing drills with the players we have. Can you run that?”

Higgs shrugs. “Sure.”

“Let me know if Malfoy’s any better than an absolute idiot.”

Higgs grimaces but nods. “Okay.”

Flint looks at Harry. “You’re going to be the kneazle in the middle.”

“What?” Harry has no idea what that could possibly mean, and all he can think of is Dudley stealing his knapsack and throwing it back and forth with Piers over Harry’s head, too high for Harry to grab it, as his pens and paper rain out of it around him.

He doesn’t think that’s what Flint’s planning on doing.

“We’re going to try to hit you with a bludger, and the people trying out for Beater are going to try to keep it away from you. Then we’ll switch, and they’ll try to hit you.”

“And if it does hit me?”

Flint grins at him, all teeth. “You’re fast. Dodge.”

This is going to go well.

\--

Harry isn’t sure if he’s that fast or the Beaters are that bad, but he only ends up being hit once, a solid hit to the ribs right over his heart when Bole gets a bludger past one of the third years trying out. 

It’s a fifth year who will probably get the position, someone named Peregrine Derrick who claps Harry on the shoulder as they fly down to the ground. “You’re damn fast,” he says when they land. 

Harry nods. “Thanks.”

Higgs skitters to the ground next to Harry, slinging an arm over his shoulder to ask, “How did your idiots do?”

“They’re not  _ my _ idiots,” Harry protests, at the same time Derrick shoves at Higgs’s shoulder. “Only one of them let a bludger hit me.”

“That had as much to do with Potter’s flying as most of their skill,” Derrick says.

“How did your side go?” Harry asks before they can start talking about his flying. “Was Draco any good?”

“Yeah, the git will probably make it. Spent a while whining that he couldn’t try out for Seeker, but he can fly.” Higgs looks at Derrick. “Flint wanted me to tell you everyone on the team has to talk about who we’re going to choose, so if you want to head back, we’ll put it up in the House later.”

Derrick nods. “Yeah, thanks. I already have a bloody Transfiguration essay, anyway, already. Fucking OWLS year. Anyway.” He salutes the two of them with his broom. “Cheers.” He takes off towards Hogwarts at a gentle jog.

Higgs looking at Harry once Derrick is gone, asking, “You hurt?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m fine.” His chest aches, but not too badly, and at worst it should just be bruised. They’re not broken, he knows.

Higgs’s eyebrows go up. “You want to try that again with a bit more enthusiasm.”

“I’m  _ fine _ .”

Higgs gives him a pointed look, then pulls away to get back on his broom. Near them, the other players who tried out are making their way back to the castle. “Let’s go, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that only took me two and a half months, and probably half of it was written today while watching the World Cup instead of working on my dissertation.
> 
> I actually do know what's going to happen in my next chapter, more or less, so hopefully it won't take me quite so long.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry gets mail from Caster the next morning. To his surprise, it’s four pieces of paper, but the first one seems to be a personal letter, so he puts the other three aside for the moment, reading through it as he works his way through his porridge.

He’s not the only person in the Great Hall at the moment, but early as it is, there are only a few Slytherins, most of them eating breakfast with bleary-eyed determination. It seems like the Hufflepuffs have the most people who get up at the same time as him, something he noticed the previous year, too. He doesn’t really know most of them, even the ones in the same year as him, but he does see the Hufflepuff Seeker near the end of their table.

Caster’s letter explains that what she sent is a draft of the bill she’s going to submit on his behalf, the one to help people like Max be able to make their bodies right without needing parental permission. She wants Harry to look it over and tell her what he thinks, and if it’s fine she’ll submit it.

The letter ends with a note asking if he had any issues getting to Hogwarts, and Harry isn’t sure if that means she knows they he did or she’s just asking after him because that’s the sort of thing she does.

Harry doesn’t get a chance to do more than pick up the other papers before, from the Great Hall doorway, Flint shouts, “Potter!”

Harry flinches, then gathers up the papers and jams them in his bag to hurry over to where Flint is. He doesn’t think he forgot anything that he was supposed to do, but it’s possible.

“Yeah?” he gasps out when he reaches Flint. 

“Forgot to tell you,” Flint says, starting down the hallway at a fast clip. Harry hurries to keep up with him. “Snape got us the pitch this morning to train the new people.”

“Now?” It’s barely past dawn, and he can’t imagine most people are awake yet.

“Yeah.” Flint grins nastily. “Figure if people want to be on the team, they have to be willing to get their pansy asses out of bed for it. Anyway, figured you at least wouldn’t mind, you always seem to be up early.”

Harry shakes his head, jogging a little as Flint gets ahead of him. Flint is built sturdily, like what Dudley might look like if he exercised instead of eating his weight weekly but more rectangular, but his legs are long, and he isn’t slowing down for Harry.

He does slow down when they get out near the pitch, saying, “Malfoy grabbed your broom for you, after whining a bit about his father. I think he’s offended you don’t want the newer broom.”

Harry shrugs. “I can still probably beat him to a snitch on it, so I don’t really care.” He can’t deal with Draco’s hurt feelings, not right now. Not this early in the morning, not after all of the sniping comments Draco has made from him since they got back. Harry wants to be his friend, but not like this.

Flint swears under his breath, low and frustrated, and when Harry squints, he sees a blur of people in red heading out onto the pitch carrying brooms. Gryffindor. Shit.

Both of them hurry up, Flint far outpacing Harry, who gets there just as the Gryffindor team reaches the Slytherin team. Draco is carrying two brooms, one of which he shoves at Harry when Harry reaches them.

The Gryffindor captain looks furious, grip tight on his broom as he shouts, “I booked this time, specifically, so you can all clear off now. Come some other time.”

Flint steps up towards him, grinning. “Plenty of room for all of us.”

It’s just because he wants to be able to watch Gryffindor practice, because normally he would be just as furious about other people being on the pitch. He doesn’t even like Slytherins being on the pitch to watch. Thinks it’s distracting.

Harry spots Ron near the edge of the pitch, Hermione with him, both of them carrying toast, and they must have grabbed it while he wasn’t paying attention in the Main Hall, because there’s no way otherwise that they beat him. He knows better than to wave to them, but he tries to catch their eye and nod so they know he knows they’re there.

“I booked the pitch,” Wood screams, and Harry flinches so hard Higgs steps in front of him. “I  _ booked _ it!”

“Well, I have a specially signed note from Professor Snape, because we need the pitch to train our new Chaser and and Beater.” Flint smirks at him, pulling a piece of parchment out of his robes, and Harry has the sudden feeling that Flint doesn’t actually have a note from Snape and is just fucking with Wood. Not that he doesn’t think he got Snape’s permission, but he doesn’t think Snape would bother to write him a note, not for a dawn practice.

Wood frowns. “You have new players? Who?”

Draco steps forward, smirking at them, and Harry sees Derrick sigh and slouch towards the front, not pushing through to the front like Draco does. Harry doesn’t know if he doesn’t care or if he just doesn’t want to seem like the level of prat Draco aspires to.

“Lucius Malfoy’s son?” Fred asks disdainfully.

“Interesting that you bring up Draco’s father,” Flint says. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the  _ generous _ gift he made to the Slytherin team.” Draco thrusts out his Nimbus Two Thousand and One to show it off to the Gryffindor team. It is an impressive broom, Harry has to admit, but Draco looks just like Dudley showing off his most recent toy doing that.

He wonders if telling Draco that will get him to stop acting like that. That might make it worth Draco’s explosion if he does that.

“What are you all still flying?” Draco sneers. “Cleansweeps?  I wasn’t even flying one of those when I was a child.”

“You’re still a child,” a girl says, and Harry realizes that Hermione and Ron must have come over to see what’s going on. “Somebody grown up wouldn’t be so quick to brag that they had to  _ buy _ themselves on to the Slytherin team.”

Harry knows that’s going to go badly half a second before the smirk drops off of Draco’s face and he spits, “No one asked you, you filthy little mudblood.”

Ron whips his wand out, but before he can do anything with it Harry has his wand tip at Draco’s throat, and he snaps, “If you say that word again, I’ll make sure nobody talks to you for a month.” It’s the harshest punishment they have internally, total isolation.

Draco’s face turns a dull red, and Harry can see the doubt in his eyes before he plasters on a smirk and says, “I’d like to see you try.”

“Would you really?” Harry leans forward, until his mouth is almost against Draco’s ear. Draco is breathing hard. “Do you really want to try this power struggle against me?” he whispers. “Because once I take the power away from you, I might not give it back.”

“You wouldn’t,” Draco says, his voice shaking a little. “You couldn’t.”

“He could.” Higgs says, and it takes all of Harry’s control not to jerk away from Draco. He had almost forgotten anyone else was there. “And regardless of what he does, I’m reporting this to Professor Snape. Potter, with me.”

Harry sends an apologetic look at Ron and Hermione, because this is a private Slytherin fight and they shouldn’t have had to see it, then follows Higgs across the pitch.

Once they’re far enough away, Higgs stops and says, “You can only use a bluff like that once, so I hope it was worth it.”

Harry scowls at him. “Who says it was a bluff?”

Higgs’s eyebrows go up. “Wasn’t it?”

Harry has to think about that for a second. “I don’t know if I would have gone that far.”

“But would you have taken power from him? Because that’s the real threat, and once you do that you can’t give it back, not really.” When Harry starts to respond, he shakes his head. “Think about it. You don’t need to decide now, but you will need to decide. He’s not going to be satisfied living on that edge of always knowing you could take it and not knowing when you will. Because five minutes ago it was an if, and now it’s a when.”

Damn. Because Harry doesn’t actually want that much power, not like that. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You’d better.” Higgs reaches over to ruffle his hair. “I’m just looking out for you. He knows how this game is played a lot better than you do, no matter the power your name affords you.”

“I don’t want to fight with Draco.” No matter how much of a prat he is sometimes.

“Then don’t. But going halfway is only going to make a mess that you’re not equipped to handle.”

“How would I—”

“You’re in touch with Caster, right? She knows how to play the game better than I do. Now let’s go, Potter. We have Quidditch to practice.”

Higgs turns away, and Harry swallows, then says, “Thank you.”

Higgs turns around to look at him, and he’s smiling, but it looks sad, a little. “I like you, Potter, and I don’t want you getting in deeper than you can deal with.”

“Why do you care?”

“I’ll tell you some other time.” Higgs ruffles his hair. “That was a hell of a stunt you pulled back there, Potter.”

“I’m not going to let him say that, not ever, not about Hermione, not about anyone.”

“Yeah. Now let’s go back before Flint kills both of us.”

Harry agrees, but he still has to take a second to take a breath and calm himself down before he can go back and see Draco.

Everyone’s still there when they get back, standing in a couple of clumps, tense and quiet. Fred and George look like they’re having a quiet conversation with a still-furious Ron, while their female players are talking to an upset Hermione. Who, right, Harry probably should have made sure was okay, but making sure Draco knew what was going on had felt more urgent at the time. 

Nobody is talking to Draco, who’s standing at the corner of the Slytherin clump looking angry, and Harry isn’t sure if it’s because of what he did or because they made some other internal decision in the meantime.

Higgs heads over to the Slytherins, but Harry splits off towards the Gryffindor team. They all look at him when he gets close, Hermione smiling at him through bright eyes. Shit, she was crying.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Harry says to the Gryffindors. “We try to keep that sort of fight out of public view.”

“Are you going to do what you threatened him with?” Wood asks.

They’re not supposed to air this sort of stuff to non-Slytherins, so Harry just smiles and says, “If he uses that word again, he’ll regret it. Hermione, are you okay?”

Hermione smiles and nods a little, brushing off her cheeks. “Thank you.”

Harry nods back, then turns and jogs off towards the Slytherin team.

Just before he gets to them, he has the sudden fear that they’re going to be mad at him, either for calling Draco out or for doing it in public, which isn’t very Slytherin of him. But he can’t just avoid them, so he joins the group.

He’s not exactly sure what he’s expecting, but it’s not Flint putting his arm around Harry’s shoulder and saying, “Well, that got the Gryffindors to stop bitching. We’re going to do some basic flying practice today, some Chaser throwing practice and Beater hitting practice, and then a small scrimmage. Potter, you’re going to be in the flying practice, and then I want you watching.”

Harry nods. He’s done that before, watched practices and then told Flint what he thought people were doing right or wrong. It’s useful for Flint because he can’t watch and practice at the same time, and it’s good practice for Harry to keep track of what’s going on.

“Well,” Flint barks when nobody moves fast enough, “in the air, all of you.”

“Sir yes sir,” Higgs says, then launches himself into the air. The rest of them follow suit, and soon they’re flying laps and patterns being called out by Flint as they fly. It’s  _ fun _ , even when it’s hard and draining, and every time Harry gets in the air he’s reminded of just how much he loves flying.

They disperse after the flying practice, Harry heading up to take his usual spot above where everyone else is going to be flying so he can see all of them. He even remembers to put a warming charm on himself because it’s cold and windy this far up, even in September.

He’s just settling in when Draco flies at him, coming so close so fast that Harry jolts backwards to keep Draco from crashing into him. “What the hell?” he demands when Draco stops. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“How dare you threaten me?” Draco shouts. “And how dare you undermine like that, especially in public, especially in front of Gryffindors?”

Harry feels his temper surge, and he can barely keep himself from pulling hs wand on Draco. “You called her  _ that _ and you just expected me to stand there with you and laugh?”

“Too afraid to say the word aloud?” Draco sneers.

“I’m not going to say something that disgusting just to make you happy. And have you forgotten, you’re not allowed to use words like that.”

“Oh,” Draco says mockingly, “so it’s Professor Snape you’re afraid of.”

“I wouldn’t say it if Snape  _ ordered _ me to.”

“So you’re just a little muggle lover, then.”

“My mother was a muggleborn.” Harry flies at Draco, forcing Draco to be the one to back up. “You want to use that word with your slimy little family, I can’t stop you. But you’re not using it in front of me and you’re not using it in Slytherin House. Because I don’t want to hear it, and I’m not going to let you convince the rest of the school that we’re all bigots. Now piss off, Malfoy. I’m busy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had Harry's reaction to Draco written for like a year, so I'm so excited to finally finish this chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

“Did Draco really--”

“Yes.”

“And did you really--”

“Yes.” Harry pushes past Blaise towards his bed so he can drop his bag down on it. “And that goes for the rest of you, too. If you use that word around me--about anyone--I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Blaise puts his hands up in mocking acquiescence, saying, “Consider me warned. Are you going to do it, though? Declare Draco unspeakable, I mean?”

“Not right now.” Harry really doesn’t want to keep talking about this and he’s pretty sure if he stays in the House he won’t have much of a choice, so he grabs his stuff and heads back out. He’ll go to the library, and if Hermione and Ron are there, all the better. He really does want to see if Hermione is okay, though he knows she’ll have questions about it, too. They won’t be questions to try to figure out how the Slytherin House power is shifting, though, so it’s better than what he’ll get staying here.

What he did was risky, he knows that, especially if Draco decides to call him on it, because it’s a power struggle he’s not entirely sure he can win, at least not without a mess, but he had to do something or Draco would think it was okay.

Hermione is in the library, and he hears her before he sees her, saying, “--know  _ what _ you were thinking, trying to hex him with that wand of yours.”

Harry turns the corner and sees them, Ron staring angrily at the parchment on the table in front of him, Hermione waving a quill around as she talks. Ron’s head picks up when he sees Harry, and he says, “Hey. Come to save me?”

“I’m serious,” Hermione says, even as she smiles at Harry.

“What’s wrong with your wand?” Harry asks, sitting down next to Ron. With a sigh, Ron pulls his wand out of his pocket. “What the hell?”

Ron’s wand looks like it was snapped in half and taped back together with about a foot of tape; when Ron waves it, it gives a feeble spark. “From when I crashed into the Whomping Willow,” Ron says. “It hasn’t really worked right since.”

“Doing anything with a broken wand is dangerous,” Hermione says, stabbing the air pointedly with the quill. “ _ Much less _ trying to hex someone.” Her voice gets quiet. “Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but it’s better that you not end up with whatever you were planning on doing to him.”

“Vomiting slugs,” Ron mumbles. When they look at him, he shrugs. “I’m good at it.”

“Well,” Hermione says, then doesn’t seem to know what else to say. She settles back down in her seat, chewing on her bottom lip. “What happened back there, Harry? We couldn’t hear all of what you said, but it seemed like a big deal.”

“It’s a Slytherin thing. I’m not...supposed to talk about it, I don’t think. It’s not…” Harry chews on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t know how much they’re supposed to talk to non-Slytherins about this. He knows they’re not supposed to do it out in public, in front of non-Slytherins. “People in Slytherin care a lot about internal House power and hierarchy. It’s mostly based on blood, you know, blood status, but not entirely, and I threatened his position.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Are you really defending Malfoy?” Ron demands. 

“No, of course not. But having this whole system based around blood status, that’s horrible. And so inappropriate to have in a school. There should be safeguards against that sort of thing.”

“Well, it is a House of blood-purists.” Ron looks at Harry. “Sorry.”

Harry shrugs. “You’re not wrong. Though there are more non-purebloods than you might think, and Snape makes sure all the purebloods learn at least a little about muggles.”

Hermione frowns. “How do you think he knows about the muggle world?” she asks. “I--well, I suppose this shows my assumptions, but I had assumed Professor Snape is a pureblood.”

“Nah, Snape isn’t a pureblood name,” Ron says absently, chewing on the end of his quill.

“How do you know that?”

“There’s--” Ron frowns. “There’s the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and a lot of people think those are the only real purebloods, even though some names were left off, like the Potters. And some of the names are gone, like my uncles, who were the last wizard Prewetts. But there are only maybe thirty pureblood family names.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “And you know all of them?”

“Not off the top of my head, I don’t think. But--” His mouth twists, and he looks away, looking uncomfortable. “We’re bad purebloods, you know. The Weasleys, I mean. My parents don’t care about any of that blood purity shit. But there are still some traditions that are, you know, tradition.”

“Like genealogies,” Harry says. “Draco knows every person from every pureblood family for a dozen generations.”

Ron nods enthusiastically, looking like he’s glad Harry gets it. “I don’t know all of that, but we had to learn the names, and all of our ancestors. I forgot a lot of it, but I think Percy can still name all of them since when we became the Weasleys.” Hermione still looks a little troubled, so Ron says, “It’s all stupid, but Mum thought we should learn it. It’s the only reason I really know about my uncles, too, because Mum never talked about them. They died during the last war.”

“Oh,” Hermione says in a small voice.

Ron shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “A lot of people they knew died in the last war, I think. My parents don’t like to talk about it.”

“Did they--” Harry swallows, then makes himself finish asking, “Do you think they knew my parents?”

“Sorry, mate, I don’t know. Everyone sort of talks about the Potters like...like they all knew them, but I don’t know if they actually did.”

That’s what Harry has noticed, too. Everyone seems to know about him, about his parents, but he doesn’t know if anybody actually  _ knew _ them. At least other than Aunt Petunia, and Harry wouldn’t ask her about his Mum for anything.

\--

Harry doesn’t remember Caster’s letter until the next day, when he’s up early but doesn’t want to go down to breakfast yet so he starts flipping through what’s jammed in his bag to try to figure out what work he actually needs to get done. He knows Hermione has it all written down and is organized about it, but Harry never seems to be able to manage that, so he relies mostly on just remembering what he has to do and hoping he doesn’t forget anything.

He thinks he should probably get this stuff back to Caster quickly, so she can submit it to the Wizengamot or whatever she does with it, so he starts reading through what she wrote. It’s the bill for letting people who are underage change their bodies to the right body without their parents’ permission, and it’s a lot to read through, but it seemed like it really bothered Max, and Max seemed nice, and it seems like a stupid thing that no adult is going to try to fix because it takes power away from adults. And the adults might not accept it anyway, but it’s worth a try, at least.

Partway through reading it he realizes he’s going to need to write stuff down, so he pulls out a piece of parchment and a quill and some ink and starts making notes. Most of them are things he doesn’t understand, like some complicated words that he doesn’t know but seem like technical legal things, but he also has some things he think should be changed. The main thing is that the bill keeps saying it’s only for temporary potions, and he doesn’t get why they wouldn’t alo include in the bill letting people get potions that make permanent changes without their parents’ permission.

The parchment is a mess of notes and ink splotches by the time he’s done, and he thinks about rewriting it so it’s a bit neater, but other people are starting to get up, so he just dries it and adds it to the papers from her so he remembers to send it when he writes Caster.

“Our little Ravenclaw,” Blaise drawls from where he’s climbing out of bed.

“Piss off.” Harry finishes stuffing all of his papers away, then climbs out of bed. “I wasn’t even studying.”

“Ooh.” Blaise saunters over, trying to grab Harry’s bag to look at what it’s in. Harry pulls it away, strapping the bag across his chest to keep Blaise from being able to get at it. It’s not even like the Wizengamot stuff is secret, really, but he just doesn’t want Blaise getting at his stuff. It’s  _ his _ . “What are you doing, writing love letters, Potter? Got yourself a secret girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I’m writing your mum.”

To his surprise, Blaise laughs, easing away from him. “Planning on being step-dad number nine? You’re a little younger than she usually goes for, I have to say.”

“It’s my charming personality.” Relieved that Blaise isn’t pushing anymore, Harry plants a hand on Blaise’s sternum and nudges him back. “You trying to climb into my clothes with me? Back off.”

“You’d be so lucky.”

“If you’re going to flirt,” Theo grouses, “can you do it someplace else? Some of us sleep like normal people.”

With an eye roll in Theo’s direction, Blaise blows Harry a kiss, then heads off to the showers. Harry waits until he’s gone before pulling his bag off and putting it on his bed. He doesn’t think Blaise or anyone else is actually going to look through it, Crabbe and Goyle because they wouldn’t think of it, Theo because he doesn’t care, and Blase because he doesn’t want to cross Harry, Harry doesn’t think.

Draco is honestly the only person he’s a little worried about snooping through his stuff, especially after what happened, but Draco probably already knows about Harry’s Wizengamot seat, anyway. And if Draco actually goes after Harry’s stuff--

Well, Harry will figure that out if it happens.

Their relative positions in Slytherin are...complicated. If it gets worse, he’s a little scared of actually fracturing Slytherin House. He’s not sure what side most of the people in second year would pick--Crabbe and Goyle are on Draco’s side, and so is Pansy, but everyone else is a bit up in the air--but he thinks most of the upper years would side with him, or at least the ones on the Quidditch team would. A lot of them seem to think Draco is a bit of a prat.

Though there are a number of purebloods in the upper years, and a lot of them might side with Draco just because Draco is also a pureblood and because Draco care about all that pureblood shit and so do they.

Whatever the split might be, Harry would prefer to avoid it altogether. Not just because he’d still like to be friends with Draco, if Draco can get past his shit and stop being so awful, but because Slytherin House is insular and closed in the dungeons, and if things get bad, he’s afraid they’ll get really bad.

“I can hear you thinking,” Theo mumbles sleepily. “Go fuck off and wank in the shower or something. It’s too early for your shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but it seemed like the best place to split it.


	7. Chapter 7

Caster gets back to Harry quickly, so quickly he would have thought she never read what he wrote if it weren’t for detailed responses to all of his questions about the law. Apparently permanent shapechanging potions are never allowed for people who are underage because of something to do with how magic works when you aren’t seventeen yet, which Harry doesn’t totally understand but also doesn’t find worth fighting over.

She says in her letter that she’s not sure if it’ll pass, but Harry hopes it will, and he thinks she’ll try to make it happen, and that’s most of what he cares about.

There aren’t any issues that he sees with the notes she sends, so he writes her a letter right at breakfast saying that he doesn’t have any other issues with it. He’s not sure what else he’s supposed to include in a letter like this, isn’t sure if it’s weird to ask her about her life because she’s an adult and probably doesn’t want to tell him about her life even if she’s working for him, so in the end he just scrawls “Thanks” at the bottom of the letter and gives it back to the owl who’s been waiting patiently since he said he would write the response right then.

The owl gives a soft hoot and then takes off.

“Writing to your family?” Draco asks snidely. “I didn’t think muggles like them knew enough to use owls.”

Harry can’t help laughing at that, even if he’s still pissed at Draco. “My aunt would have a heart attack if I sent her an owl, though I think _I_ would have a heart attack if she sent me an owl first.”

“Who are you writing to so urgently, then?” Draco demands. “After all, we all know you can’t be arsed to actually reply when people write you.”

Harry hadn’t been planning on telling him about the Wizengamot stuff—though he’s pretty sure Draco’s father probably already told him—but he’s so frustrated Draco won’t _listen_ to him that he snaps, “I was writing to my Wizengamot proxy. And I _do_ reply when house elves don’t steal my mail, you prat.”

“Are you still on about that house elf nonsense?”

“It’s _not nonsense_!”

His shout manages to coincide with a lull in conversation across the Great Hall, and fabric rustles as dozens of people turn to look at him. Harry feels his face start to heat, and he shoves away from the table, grabbing his stuff so he can get away from Draco and everyone else as fast as possible.

He hates this. He’s not a liar, he’s _not_ a liar, and he has to listen to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon calling him that, but he’s not going to sit through Draco doing it, too.

“I’m not sure if that was clever or stupid.”

Harry spins around to see Blaise striding down the hallway after him, looking like he’s strolling leisurely even as he closes the distance between them rapidly. “Why are you following me?”

“We do have the same schedule, Potter, in case you’ve forgotten.” Blaise catches up with him, and Harry isn’t really mad at him, so he just walks next to him instead of arguing.

When Blaise doesn’t elaborate, Harry gives in and asks, “What are you talking about, it being clever or stupid?”

Blaise grins at him like he’d been waiting for Harry to ask. “Well, you look like you were running away—or like you were leaving to plot revenge later. To leave Draco looking over his shoulder and waiting to see when you strike for his disrespect. Stupid,” he says, “or clever.”

I just wanted to get out of there, Harry thinks, but he knows better than to say that. Instead, he says, “I don’t care what people think.”

“I doubt that,” Blaise says, “but sure, we can go with that. Did a house elf really steal your mail?”

“ _Yes_.”

Blaise puts his hands up. “Just asking. Do you know who sent them?”

Harry shakes his head, letting his temper ease a little now that it seems like Blaise isn’t going to argue with him. “It seemed like he was going against whoever’s house elf he is.”

“Doubtful.” Blaise must see something in his face, because he quickly says, “I’m not saying you’re lying. It’s just that house elves…can’t go against their masters, not really. Not without being crazy or—well, most masters set punishment clauses for disobedience, so they would have to be hurting themselves pretty much continuously to actively do something like that against orders.”

“He was, it seemed like.”

“Wow,” Blaise breathes.

“And…I’m not sure his master said ‘don’t steal Harry Potter’s mail’ and he decided to. So that’s not disobedience, necessarily.”

Blaise shakes his head. “Acting against a wizard without orders or protection guidelines—they protect their master’s territories against intruders or enemies without orders—that’s high-level disobedience. If you’re right, that house elf really must be a few kneazles short of a litter.” He hesitates, then asks, “You took your Wizengamot seat?”

“I’m twelve.”

Blaise rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. You appointed a regent?”

“You didn’t know?”

“I’m twelve, Potter. And besides, my mother is a complicated relationship with the British Ministry of Magic, so we tend not to follow the workings of the Wizengamot out of spite if nothing else. Who did you pick? I haven’t heard you talk about any of your parents’ old friends who could take the seat for you.”

Harry tightens his grip on his bag strap. “I don’t know any of my parents’ old friends.”

Blaise gapes at him. “You don’t know _any_ of them? You must have—you must know some of them from growing up. Who taught you about magic?”

Harry sees the Charms door in sight and speeds up towards it. “We’re here.”

Blaise keeps pace easily. “We’re also twenty minutes early and nobody else is here.”

“It’s Caster,” Harry says. “That’s who I appointed. Prefect Caster. And she’s great, so don’t say anything about her being a halfblood, because I don’t care.”

“I wasn’t—” Blaise shakes his head. “I’m more curious about the fact that you don’t know any of your parents’ friends. I know about Black and Pettigrew and the Longbottoms, but your father was the bloody Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter, blood-traitors that they might have been. That was an _old_ family.”

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t have the same hot burning feeling as when he was so mad at Draco, but his throat hurts, and his chest. “I don’t know.”

“And you never asked?”

“Asked who?”

“Your family. Whatever muggles you’re stuck with.”

Harry’s jaw clenches. “My aunt and uncle told me my parents were drunks who died in a car crash. I don’t think they’d be in a hurry to introduce me to my mum and dad’s schoolmates.” Someone else comes in to the classroom, and Harry busies himself with his bag, muttering, “Drop it.”

\--

The next couple months feel like they go quickly even as each individual day drags. Draco’s sniping eases into a vague coolness tempered with occasional attempts to cheerfully engage in conversation with Harry. Harry responds in kind, but it never seems to last—Harry gets mad or Draco does. Whatever made them get along the previous year seems to be gone, and Harry’s not sure if he changed or if Draco did.

Maybe Harry was more willing to overlook Draco’s bigotry, or maybe it wasn’t so obvious. Maybe Draco cared less about how different Harry is then.

Whatever it is, it’s exhausting. Harry hadn’t realized just how much Draco helped him with the wizarding world until that help is gone and he’s left feeling like he’s floundering. Not that Blaise and Theo aren’t nice enough, but they’re friends with each other more than they’re friends with Harry, and Hermione is a muggleborn and Ron doesn’t seem to care about any of this stuff and so would never bring it up unless he’s asked directly about it.

So Harry still wants to be friends with Draco, he thinks. Draco was nice to be friends with, when he managed to not be a prat. And Harry could always use more friends.

\--

Halloween hits before Harry is really prepared for it; he only remembers exactly when it is two days earlier when Ron mentions the feast and Harry thinks, I can’t do that, I can’t do that again.

So when Slytherin House gathers before the feast, Harry slips out. He’s not sure where to go, exactly, so he just starts walking. There’s no way to get away from this day, not really, but Harry’s damn well going to try.

He gets a couple floors up before running into Professor McGonagall, who gives him a stern look and asks, “Shouldn’t you be on your way to the feast, Mr. Potter?”

Harry swallow, his throat so dry that it clicks. He’s honestly loath to miss a meal that he doesn’t need to, but the thought of eating anything makes his stomach churn. So he forces himself to keep his voice polite when he says, “I don’t feel like celebrating the death of my parents, Professor.”

McGonagall stares at him for a second, and then her face softens. “Of course, Mr. Potter. It would do you good to eat something, but the feast is rather celebratory. I will excuse you missing it for today, but be sure to be back to your dormitory before curfew.” She reaches out like she’s going to touch his hair, and then she restrains herself and pulls her hand back. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Harry didn’t think it would be so easy, but he forces himself to smile at her and say, “Thank you, Professor.”

McGonagall nods, then strides past towards the Great Hall. Harry starts walking again, too antsy to stand still when he doesn’t have to.

He’s not sure how far he walks, in total, or how long, though he passes Ginny Weasley at some point. She’s striding with purpose, so different from when he saw her in her house, and he doesn’t think she sees him. He doesn’t really want to talk to anyone, so he doesn’t say hi and just lets her go.

He's somewhere on the third floor when he hears the voice, a cold sibilant voice that sounds like it coming from the walls, and Harry’s first thought is that nobody thought to warn him about the talking hallway.

But then he hears what it’s saying.

“ _So hungry…I’m so hungry…it’s been so long…time to kill…”_

He can’t tell where the voice is coming from—there’s nothing around him, even when he draws his wand—but it sounds like it’s moving further away, and he starts following it, but it’s moving faster, faster, and he starts running. He’s not sure what he’ll do if he finds it, but he needs to…he needs to warn someone, he needs to tell someone, he needs to make sure whatever it is doesn’t hurt anyone, and people might be coming out of the Great Hall soon, he has no idea what time it is, and there are so many people, and if it wants to kill…

Harry pelts down the stairs so fast he almost topples down them, and he clings on to the bannister so he can keep his feet under him.

The voice leads him down nearly the entirety of the second floor, whispering about the blood it can smell, and there must be someone there, and he has the wild thought of finding Ginny Weasley dead, because she’s the only other person he’s seen, and it’ll kill Ron, but no, no, she must be at the feast too, she must have just been late, and then he’s splashing through water and there’s something in the distance, hanging from the wall and too small to be a person, and he hurries forward, trying not to slip, to see what it is.

It takes him a second, because it’s not a shape that he’s expecting, and then with a shout he realizes it’s Mrs. Norris, Flich’s cat, but totally rigid like someone froze her solid.

Harry has no idea what he thinks he can do about it, but he approaches her quickly, wand out, because he can’t just leave her here—

And then there’s a rush of noise like a hundreds of feet thundering up the stairs, and everyone bursts into the hallway and stops.

Stops and stares at Harry, wand out, next to Flich’s messed up cat.

Draco is near the front, and he’s staring at Harry with a surprising flush on his cheeks, mouth open, and then he makes eye contact with Harry and smirks, calling, “Enemies of the heir, beware! I like your style.”

Harry has no clue what he’s talking about, not until he turns catches a glimpse in his periphery of words scrawled in massive red letters on the wall next to him, something he had missed in his hurry to check on Mrs. Norris.

_THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE._

This, Harry thinks, is not helping with his hatred of Halloween.

Harry opens his mouth to say…something, but he doesn’t get a chance, because Filch pushes his way to the front of the crowd, presumably to see why everyone is just standing around, and then spots Mrs. Norris and shrieks, “My cat! What happened— _you_! What did you do to my cat?” He surges towards Harry, who jerks away from him and Mrs. Norris, nearly slipping in the water. “You’ve murdered my cat! I’ll kill you!”

Harry backs away again, but the wall’s at his back and he has nowhere to go, and he can’t manage to get a sound out of his throat, never mind an explanation for something he can’t explain, and he has the sudden hysterical thought that Filch is going to strangle him right there in front of everyone.

But then Dumbledore’s voice shouts, “ _Argus_ ,” and Filch stumbles to a halt, still glaring ferociously at Harry. Dumbledore appears from the crowd, followed closely by Professor McGonagall and Snape, with Lockhart trailing behind looking excited.

Dumbledore detaches Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket where she’s hanging, handling her surprisingly gently, then says, “Come with me, Argus. You as well, Mr. Potter.”

“My office,” Lockhart says excitedly. “Please, feel free.”

“Thank you, GIlderoy.”

The crowd that let’s them pass is a silent one, all eyes on Harry, and he jams his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders, wishing he had his invisibility cloak or could just turn himself invisible all on his own so nobody could look at him.

The worst part, he thinks, the worst part isn’t the people who look frightened of him, because he’s used to that from how people look at him after the Dursleys tell stories of how awful and violent he is. The worst part is the people like Draco who look excited.

They end up in Lockhart’s office, Harry and Dumbledore and Filch and McGonagall and Snape and Lockhart, and Snape silently points Harry to a chair with a glare that says that, if he doesn’t sit, Snape will do something nasty to him.

Harry’s pretty sure he’s already going to be facing enough nasty things. He sits.

Filch looks like he’s torn between sobbing over his cat and threatening Harry; he ends up in another chair, muttering accusations through his sobs as Dumbledore and McGonagall poke at the cat with their wands and Lockhart proclaims all of the various ways he could have prevented Mrs. Norris from being murdered.

Snape himself has his back to one of the walls, his face hidden in shadow and the cloak of his hair.

Harry is going to be expelled. He knows it, knows it’s becoming increasingly clear as Dumbledore continues to not accomplish anything. Nobody is going to believe that he didn’t murder Mrs. Norris, not when he was found with his wand out leaning over her with those words written next to him. And what Draco shouted certainly didn’t help.

Eventually, Dumbledore straightens up from where he’s been bent nearly in half over Mrs. Norris. “She’s not dead, Argus.”

“Not dead? She—she looks dead.”

“She’s been Petrified.” Dumbledore exchanges a glance with McGonagall, who looks even more unhappy. “How, though, I cannot say.”

“Ask _him_.” Filch points a trembling finger at Harry. “ _He_ did it, you saw him.”

“No second-year could have done such a thing,” Dumbledore says. Then, under his breath, he says something that sounds like, “Not even Tom, not at that age.”

Relief floods Harry. Dumbledore believes him. Or at least, Dumbledore believes that he isn’t strong enough to have done it, which is good enough for Harry, because he _didn’t_ do it, whatever _it_ is, and that means maybe he won’t be expelled and sent back to the Dursleys, who might actually kill him.

“But you saw what he wrote on the wall,” Filch shouts. “And he was the one there, the only one there, he _must_ have done it.”

“I didn’t touch Mrs. Norris,” Harry says before he can help himself, because he can’t let Filch talk Dumbledore out of believing him. “I wouldn’t.”

Dumbledore looks at him, meeting Harry’s eyes, and Harry has the feeling that Dumbledore can see through him, see into him. Shaken, Harry looks away.

“Why were you not at the feast?” Dumbledore asks, and his voice is gentler than Harry was expecting.

Harry swallows. He doesn’t want to talk about this, especially not in front of Filch and Snape. But he can’t be expelled, so he looks back up and says, “I don’t know if you know, sir, but it’s the anniversary of when my parents died.”

Snape sounds like he’s choking, but when Harry looks at him, his face is still hidden.

Determined now, Harry looks back at Dumbledore. “I would have just stayed in the Slytherin dorm, but they—they talk about my parents on Halloween, and I didn’t want to hear it, and I didn’t want to go to the feast because I didn’t feel like celebrating, so I just…walked around. Professor McGonagall said it was okay as long as I was back by curfew.”

“I did,” McGonagall confirms.

“And why was my student requesting permission from you?” Snape demands.

“Because I ran into him in the hallway,” McGonagall says, sounding exasperated. “Really, Severus, there aren’t conspiracies at every turn.”

“No,” Snape says, “only a petrified cat and Mr. Potter as the only witness.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Harry protests. “I just found her like that.” He thinks about telling them that he saw Ginny, too, but he doesn’t want to get her in trouble, and he thinks he’ll only sound like he’s trying to deflect blame.

Everyone stares at him, and then Snape steps out of the shadows and says, “We can finish this later. I need to speak to my House. And Mr. Potter.”

On that ominous note, he swoops over to Harry, grabs his arm in a bruising-tight grip, and drags him out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! (I'm actually posting this from airport wifi, and if I get my shit together I might even manage to write most of the next chapter on my very long flight that's ahead.)


	8. Chapter 8

Snape lets go of Harry’s arm once they’re out of the room, but he walks behind Harry as though herding him like he’s a chicken, all the way down to the dungeons and to Snape’s office. Snape opens the door with the wave of his wand, then, with a firm hand on Harry’s back, pushes him in. He shuts the door behind him.

Before Harry can say anything, Snape swoops around Harry to grab his chin, tilting Harry’s head up so Harry’s forced to meet his eye. “Did you petrify Argus Filch’s cat?”

“I don’t even know what petrification is.”

“Did you petrify Argus Filch’s cat?”

“No.”

It feels like Snape is x-raying Harry’s brain. “Did you write that on the wall?”

“ _ No _ .”

“Why were you in that hallway?”

“I didn’t want to go to the feast.”

Snape’s fingers tighten on Harry’s chin. “Why were you in  _ that _ hallway?”

Harry looks away, but Snape’s hand jerks his chin up even further until he’s forced to meet Snape’s gaze again. Snape’s eyes are the blackest things Harry has ever seen, like the deepest holes, no difference between pupil and iris. “I thought I heard something.”

“You thought you  _ heard  _ something?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you think you hear?”

Harry swallows. He doesn’t think magical people hear voices any more than muggles do, and he doesn’t trust Snape enough to tell him. “I don’t know.”

“That is a lie, Mr. Potter.”

“I  _ don’t know _ .” Harry swallows again. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t—that’s not what I expected to find.”

“What did you expect to find?”

“Nothing. I didn’t—nothing.” Snape stares at him for another minute, a full minute that feels like forever, Snape’s eyes boring into Harry’s brain, and then he lets go, pulling away. “Sir, what’s the Chamber of Secrets?”

“If I hear you bragging about this, I will have you in detention for the rest of your time at this school. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape opens the door, and Harry hurries out of the office. To his surprise, Snape strides after him towards the dorms, sweeping into the room ahead of Harry with a muttered, “Quicksilver.”

It looks like the entire House is in the common room, though the entire room goes silent when Snape strides in, Harry trailing behind him and wishing he could hide between Snape like Dudley used to hide behind Aunt Petunia’s skirts when he was little.

“Everyone will listen,” Snape says. “Is everybody here?”

Prefect Armin nods. “Yes, sir.”

Snape glances at Harry. “Sit.”

Harry sits on one of the window ledges, pressing his palm to the glass out to the lake. Everyone looks at him, and he keeps his eyes on Snape.

“Everyone,” Snape repeats, and all eyes snap to him, “will listen. Tonight, it was announced that the Chamber of Secrets was opened. Many of you are aware of the implications of that; for those of you who are not aware, the Chamber of Secrets is, allegedly, an area of the castle—unplottable, unable to be found or accessed by any but the true heir of Salazar Slytherin. In it, the legend goes, there is a monster that will awaken to kill those who do not belong here.”

“Mudbloods,” someone says, and Snape snarls, “Detention, Ms. Whiteburn, for the next week, and if I hear that word from any of you I will not stop at a week’s detention. Muggleborns have equal right to be here as you or anybody else in this room, and I will not stand for that word in my House. If any of you know about this—if any of you are involved in this—you are to inform me immediately. If you inform me without hesitation, I will be lenient and seek to maintain this within the House. If you do not tell me, I will not be so lenient.”

“Sir,” Max says, “is there a danger to us?”

“Ostensibly,” Snape says, “you are safe. Purebloods, half-bloods—according to the legends, you are safe. But there are two things you must understand. First, there is no way to distinguish between muggleborns and those who are not, not without prior knowledge. So unless somebody is specifically setting the monster on muggleborns—and, given that the attack was on a cat, that seems unlikely—you are no safer than anybody else. Second,” he says, and his voice deepens, sharpens, “there are muggleborns in this room. You have muggleborn Housemates. And we look after our own. That is who we are, that is who we have always been. We will protect those of our Housemates who are at increased risk because they are Slytherins. Prefects, organize a system. We will not lose a Housemate when we can keep them safe.”

“Yes, sir,” Prefect Armin says.

“Shafiq,” Snape says, “with me. Everybody else, you are not to leave from now until the end of curfew.”

Max heads over to Snape, and as soon as they’re out of the room the room fills with noise. Harry slips through the crowd and to his bed, ignoring efforts to catch his attention. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, not until he gets his head straight and figures out what’s going on.

And it’s Halloween. He can’t deal with this, not right now, not today.

\--

Harry wakes up and immediately regrets it.

His head is pounding, most likely from dehydration, but beyond that is the knowledge that the entire school thinks he half-murdered Filch’s cat or whatever happened to it. And he’s spent so much of his life with people looking at him like he’s about to snap and hurt people.

St. Brutus’s Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys.

Harry drags himself out of bed and into the shower to scrub all of the awfulness of Halloween off of him. It doesn’t work, but he feels a little less sweat-drenched by the end of it.

As he’s leaving the showers, Goyle, in between apparently drowning himself in the sink, asks, “How’d you do it?”

“How did I do what?”

“The cat.” Goyle waves a hand, splattering water on the mirror in front of him. “How’d you do...that?”

“I didn’t,” Harry snaps, feeling a bit testy about the whole thing.

Goyle blinks at him before saying, “Huh. Okay. How about that.” And then he goes back to drenching himself in the sink, apparently satisfied with the answer.

Harry has a strong feeling it won’t be quite so easy with anybody else, but the response helps, a little. So he’s smiling at a little when he finally walks out into the common room to see what looks like half of the House watching him. The smile drops away, and he puts his head down and strides towards the exit, hoping nobody confronts him.

He does manage to make it out of the dungeons without having to deal with anyone, though that only lasts until he reaches the entrance to the Great Hall, where Hermione and Ron are waiting; it looks like they’re arguing about something in a voice too low for Harry to understand, though they both cut off sharply when he walks up. Hermione even smiles at him, though it looks forced and drops away as she says, “Hi, Harry.”

“I didn’t petrify Filch’s cat.”

Hermione bites her lip, then says, “Of course not, Harry, neither of us believed that.”

“It’s just--”

“ _ Ronald _ .”

Ron turns a glare on Hermione. “Don’t call me Ronald.”

“Then don’t accuse Harry of hurting Filch’s cat.”

“I’m just saying it’s a little bit suspicious--”

“There was a voice,” Harry cuts in before he has to listen to any more of their bickering. “I heard a voice that said it wanted to kill someone, and I followed it, and then I found Mrs. Norris. So I was going there specifically, but not...not to hurt Mrs. Norris.”

Both of them stare at him with wide eyes, Harry stepping out of the way so a few older Hufflepuffs can enter the Great Hall. “Merlin, Harry,” Ron whispers, face draining of color. Hermione’s hair just looks increasingly puffy, as though she’s a cat that he startled. “Did you tell anyone? Dumbledore, or anyone?”

“And say what, that a murderous voice led me to a petrified cat? I’d rather they not all be convinced that I’m losing it, thanks. Anyway, I just--I didn’t do it. I need you to believe me.”

“Of course we believe you,” Hermione says, lurching forward to wrap Harry in a hug that he barely manages to keep from flinching out of.

Ron stares at him for another moment, eyes wide, then nods earnestly, saying, “Yeah, mate, I believe you. But I don’t think the rest of the school will.”

Harry knows that; he’s used to everyone at school thinking he’s a delinquent, from living with the Dursleys and going to school with Dudley. “You two are a start, though, and I’ll take that.”

Entering the Great Hall is less reassuring, because it’s as though everyone in the room turns and looks at him, and the whispers start, and Harry puts his head down and splits from Ron and Hermione to head to the Slytherin table.

He finds one of the emptier spots and sits there, wishing like never before that Caster were still here so he had at least one other person who believed in him, a person people would listen to. Hopefully she hasn’t heard anything about what happened yet, so he can tell her his side before someone tells her that he tried to murder Filch’s cat.

Maybe they can kick him off of the Wizengamot for that. He hopes not. They haven’t managed to help Max yet, and he’d like to at least help Max before he gets kicked off of it.

Harry’s shoulders hunch when Blaise slides in next to him, but all Blaise does is grab some toast from near Harry, pile some scrambled eggs on top of one of the pieces, and starts eating it that way. It’s less dignified than Harry would have expected from a pureblood, except Blaise always eats like that in the morning.

“Blaise--”

“I don’t think you petrified Filch’s cat,” Blaise says around a mouthful of eggs. “What did you write about in McGonagall’s essay?”

“Uh.” Harry rubs at his forehead as it gives a twinge of pain. “Alfred’s Fourth Law. You?”

“The Seven Principles of Light. Though I think mine is at least an inch short, and I’m just hoping she doesn’t notice.”

“Why don’t you write bigger?”

“A pureblood, write bigger?” Blaise clasps his hand over his chest like Harry just stabbed him. “I could never. Also my penmanship looks like I’m a child when I write any bigger. At least you--”

“How did you do it?”

Harry flinches so violently at Draco appearing next to him that he nearly upends his cup of pumpkin juice all over Blaise’s toast; Blaise catches it before it can topple over onto his plate. “Do what?”

“Petrify the squib’s cat. I thought you were serious when you told me off for what I called the Granger girl, but I see now it was just a cover. And a clever one at that. Nobody would suspect someone who cares so much about people like her would open the Chamber of Secrets.”

Harry is really tempted to punch Draco in his smug face. “Except people  _ do _ suspect me, and I  _ didn’t _ open it, and I  _ do _ care about what you call Hermione because she’s my friend and because that’s a mean word and because my mother  _ was a muggleborn too _ .”

With that, Harry shoves away from the table and stalks towards the doors, because he can’t be there anymore with all of those people staring at him. As he walks, a first-year Ravenclaw flinches away from him, and he puts his head down and pretends not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada.


	9. Chapter 9

 The whispers follow Harry everywhere.

He's used to that, to a certain extent; he's used to people watching him, to people staring at him, but this is more like how people back in Surrey used to whisper about him, like he was about to snap and hurt people, and they had to keep an eye on him so they didn't miss it.

Honestly, he's not even sure what they're waiting for; do they think he's going to pull out his wand and start petrifying people in the middle of a crowded hallway?

Maybe the worst part--he's not sure how to decide what the worst part is, at this point--is that Draco seems determined to be his friend again. He'd think it was that Draco thinks that'll keep Harry from attacking him, but Draco has told him flat-out that he thinks Harry's the heir and that he wants to be involved in whatever Harry's planning. And, from what Harry can tell, no amount of arguing that Harry doesn't want to murder muggleborns will convince him that Harry had nothing to do with Filch's cat.

Hermione and Ron, on the other hand, have taken to sneaking off and reappearing hours later, and Harry is half-convinced that they're going off to snog in some corner. He's not really sure why, but he also doesn't want to think about it too hard. As long as they don't do it in front of him, he's not going to complain.

At least the Quidditch team is treating him ordinarily enough; their first game against Gryffindor is soon, and Flint is determined that they'll beat them.

"If you're the Heir," Flint says at the end of one of their practices, "just don't do anything that'll get yourself expelled until after the match."

"I'm not the Heir," Harry protests from where he's flopped over on the cold ground, breathing heavily. They've been running dodging drills for hours now, and he's dodged more bludgers than hit him, but he was hit by more than he would have liked.

"I give no shits," Flint tells him. "None at all."

Higgs leans down to offer Harry a hand, and he lets himself be pulled to his feet. There's mud all over his back, but at this point, he's too tired to care. "You alright, Potter?"

"I'm not the Heir to Slytherin."

Higgs snorts, throwing an arm over Harry's shoulder after ruffling his hair. Bits of mud splatter down Harry's back, and he cringes at the thought of what might be in his hair. "Didn't think you were, not after your show with Malfoy." 

They start heading back towards the castle, Harry just barely not dragging his broom on the ground behind him. He's tired and aches all over, and the only thing that makes him feel a little better is that Draco is still stuck with another half an hour of dodging practice after he whined about it.

"Have you talked to Caster?" Higgs asks when they're nearing the castle. "About Filch's cat, I mean, and the fact that half the school thinks you did it?"

Harry shrugs. "No. Why?"

"Because she can help. Why wouldn't you tell her?"

"What can she do? She isn't here." Harry wishes she was, because he knows she would be on his side, that she would believe that he didn't do anything to Filch's cat. He doesn't know if she would actually argue on his side in public, but at least she wouldn't stare and whisper and say that he's going to go after muggleborns next.

He doesn't think she would, at least.

"Your guardians are muggles, right?" Higgs doesn't seem to need an answer; he continues without waiting for Harry's response. "I don't know what the deal is with your situation, but it seems to me that Caster is the closest thing you have to a wizarding guardian. So you should let her know what's going on."

Harry still doesn't think he understands. "Why?"

"Because that's what you do when you have parents." Higgs stops, pulling Harry to a halt with him. He turns to look at Harry. "People can't help you if you don't let them, Potter. Let us help you."

"Help me with what?" Harry demands. "What are you going to do? People think I went after Filch's cat, and I don't know what you think you can do to change that."

"I have a wand," Higgs says, "and I'm not afraid of hexing some snot-nosed brats if they go after you."

Harry bites his lip, trying to keep from smiling. Hearing Higgs say that makes him feel warm, a press in his chest that he's still not familiar with. He's not used to people wanting to care of him, and he still doesn't really understand it.

"But you need to write to Caster. Tell her what's going on and see what she has to say. As a Slytherin prefect, she would know more about Slytherin history than most people. She might have something you can use as proof that you're not the Heir. And either way, she might have some advice." Higgs stares at him, and then he looks away. He looks almost ashamed. "I know you feel old, but you're a child. And there's nothing wrong with that," he adds hurriedly when Harry bristles. "Just let people help you, okay, Potter?"

"Yeah," Harry says around the lump in his throat. "Okay."

\--

It dawns bright and cloudless on the day of the match against Gryffindor, and Harry spends ten minutes standing in the shower with the water streaming down on his face, trying to keep from throwing up.

He doesn't think he'll do that badly, after a year of playing Quidditch, but he can't help be nervous anyway, especially given everything that's going on.

Finally he manages to drag himself out of the shower and to the Great Hall, where he slips in between Flint and Higgs to grab some toast and scrambled eggs. It's more than he wants to be eating at the moment, frankly, but he needs to eat something, and the other choice Higgs shoving food down his throat.

Draco slides in across from him, smile bright, and piles eggs and sausages on his plate to eat with polite gusto. Derrick, the new beater, is next to him, cutting up potatoes into smaller and smaller pieces that he doesn't seem to actually be eating.

"You ready?" Flint asks. "Not that it matters if you aren't, at this point."

"Of course," Draco says loftily, before putting another precise slice of sausage in his mouth.

Derrick nods, putting another piece of potato on his plate to start cutting it up as well. Harry isn't sure if he's eaten anything, but he can't blame him if he hasn't.

They head out towards the pitch as a team, and Harry finds himself herded towards the middle of the group as though they think they need to look after him or keep him hidden from view. Maybe they think someone is going to go after him, maybe to sabotage the game.

Fred and George cross in front of their group's path on their way down to the pitch, and Higgs stiffens, but one of the twins just leans around to grin at Harry and say, "Try to avoid any wayward bludgers out there."

"Not that we'll go easy on you," the other one adds.

"But we'll try to avoid landing you in the infirmary again."

"Now the rest of you aren't getting that consideration."

"But Mum might kill us if she hears we dislocated Harry Potter's shoulder again."

"Move," Flint barks, and the twins jog off with a last jaunty wave.

From next to Harry, Higgs mutters, "Maybe I'll land them in the hospital wing."

"Their Mum gave me a sweater last Christmas," Harry tells him, "and they rescued my from my Aunt and Uncle's this summer."

Higgs glances over at him, then says the darkest voice Harry has ever heard from him, "I'm sure their Mum is lovely, and we will talk about your relatives some other time. After this match."

Harry doesn't really want to talk about his relatives, but he just nods and keeps walking. There isn't much use in arguing now, and hopefully Higgs will forget about it, especially if it's an exciting match.

They take to the air after a handshake between Flint and the Gryffindor captain Wood where they look like they're trying to break each other's hands. Harry goes as high up as he can and still watch everything, partly to get a better view to watch the snitch, partly because Flint likes him to pay attention when he can so he can report back later on Gryffindor tactics. It's easier for him to tell what their entire field of play is because he can see everything from a distance.

The Gryffindor and Slytherin Chasers are fairly well matched; Draco is quite good, and so are the Gryffindor Chasers, loathe as Harry is to admit that.

As engaged as he is in watching the game and looking for the snitch, he doesn't notice the bludger pelting at him until it's nearly smashing him in the face; he ducks down under it, though he can feel the wind from it sweeping through his hair.

He turns to see if anyone goes for it, which is the only reason he sees it come boomeranging back at him. Pressing down close to his broom, he heads full-tilt down towards the main part of the match, shouting, "Bludger on me."

Derrick pelts at him, knocking the bludger away and then turning on a dime to hover next to Harry. "You alright, Potter?"

"Yeah, cheers. I just--" It's only because Harry's face is turned towards Derrick that he sees the bludger reverse course again without anyone touching it to come speeding back towards them. "It won't leave me alone."

"That's--" Derrick hits it away again, and it hardly moves away at all this time before shooting at Harry again. "Motherfucker. Get out of here, Potter."

Harry speeds away, dodging and weaving around players to try to get the bludger off him. He passes Draco, who swears at him or at least in his general direction, then passes Flint, who breaks off to fly with him, shouting, "What the fuck, Potter?"

"The bludger won't leave me alone. I think it's hexed." It wooshes over his head as he ducks, then comes barreling back at his face, and he breaks away from Flint to try to get away from it.

And there, he sees it out of the corner of his eye, near the hoop where Wood is hovering--the snitch. Might as well take out two birds with one bludger, so he heads that way, keeping himself low and tight to him broom to try to make himself a smaller target. Faster, too, or so he hopes.

The bludger doesn't manage to take out Wood--more the pity, that--but Harry gets close enough to nearly close his fingers around the snitch before it darts away from him, the bludger curving neatly around the hoop in the opposite direction from Harry.

And then the race is on, the Gryffindor Seeker finally catching on and joining Harry in chasing the snitch. The bludger darts between them, only not fast enough to catch Harry because he keeps moving, faster and faster, this way and that way, and people are shouting now, he can hear them shouting, and he presses himself forward, arm outstretched, fingers so close to the wings of the snitch he can feel them.

His palm touches metal just as the bludger comes from nowhere to smash into his arm, and he goes flying, toppling off his broom and down onto the grass below. He rolls to an agonizing halt, hand still closed around the snitch mostly because he can't figure out how to move his fingers.

They won, he thinks, and then he closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

He doesn't get long to breathe before he hears the whine and whistle of the bludger hurtling towards him again, and he opens his eyes just in time to see it aiming for his head. He rolls, agony shooting through his arm, and it smashes into the ground next to him and then explodes.

Bits of flying bludger scratch up his cheek, and he hisses out a breath.

And then the entirety of the Slytherin team is descending on him, and people are flooding in from the stands, and Harry sits up, hunching over his arm as that sends a wave of pain through his arm.

It's broken, he thinks. It has that same shards-and-nausea feel as when Dudley stomped on his wrist until it shattered, and he has to fight to keep from turning and throwing up. That time, his wrist had fixed itself in a couple of days. He doesn't know if it'll do that this time.

Higgs gets to him first, crouching over him like an angry bird, and Harry would flinch away from the anger on his face, but Higgs's hands are gentle as he touches Harry's shoulder. "You okay, Potter?"

"Arm's broken," Harry grits out.

"Merlin, Potter, can't you manage to go a year without fucking up one of your arms in a Quidditch match?"

Before Harry can respond, Lockhart appears next to him, wand and blinding smile out. "Never fear," he exclaims, "I can fix this in no time."

Higgs's wand is out before either of them can react, and he snaps, "If you cast a single spell I will hex you into next year."

The smile freezes on Lockhart's face like he forgets what he was supposed to be emoting. And then, a half-second too late to be a natural reaction, he laughs brightly. "My dear boy, you don't know what you're saying."

"I do, in fact." Muscling himself between Harry and Lockhart, Higgs puts an arm under Harry's good shoulder and pulls him up to his feet, saying, "Just breathe, and I'll get you to Madam Pomfrey."

Harry sucks in a breath, because he had been holding his breath, trying to keep it in his lungs like if he held still enough the pain wouldn't be so bad. It doesn't work, he knows that, but he can't resist trying. "Why did you...?"

"Did you want Lockhart doing anything to your arm?"

He doesn't even need to think about it. "No."

"Exactly." Professor Snape comes swooping over, somehow hurrying without looking like he's hurrying, and Higgs says, "Broken arm, Professor. I'll take him to the Hospital Wing."

Snape's eyes dart to Harry, so quickly it looks nearly by accident, and then they focus back on Higgs, and he says, "Well done."

"The bludger, sir?"

"I will be examining it myself."

"Someone tried to kill him, Professor."

Snape is already looking past them, towards where people are gathered around the exploded bludger, but he looks at Higgs at that. "Take him to the Hospital Wing, Mr. Higgs."

Higgs hesitates, then says, "Yes, sir."

\--

"Your arm is shattered, Mr. Potter." Madam Pomfrey aims an unhappy look at his arm, as though it's at fault for being broken, then asks, "Are you able to open your hand at this time?"

His hand? Harry had forgotten about that, but he opens it slowly, using his good hand to pull the snitch out of it when he pries it open enough to do so. 

Next to him, Higgs's face lights up in a grin. "I love you," he breathes. "You caught the bloody snitch."

"Language," Madam Pomfrey admonishes, but Higgs only winks at Harry, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

"We'd halted the game anyway--that's what happens when someone blows up one of the game balls--but now I get to tell Flint we don't need a rematch. Well done, Potter." 

Something warm and wriggly settles in Harry's stomach, and he smiles back at him, ducking a head a little in case he's as bright red as he feels. He'll never get used to people complimenting him like that, so earnestly, not because he's the Boy Who Lived but because he did something good.

"This will take at least a night to heal," Madam Pomfrey says with another chastising look at Higgs. "You were very lucky--any worse and it would be Skele-Gro for you. As it is, you will need at least a Bone Alignment Potion before I can even think of resetting your bones, and a Bone Strengthening Potion after that so it doesn't shatter again the next time it's hit with something."

"That sounds worse than Skele-Gro," Harry says, because it does, even though he has no idea what Skele-Gro is, or the other potions. But having to take two and still haven't to be healed can't be more enjoyable than having to take one potion, even with a name like that.

"I assure you, Mr. Potter, it is not. Now lie back, and I will fetch you the first potion." With that, she bustles off towards one of her cabinets, muttering about the dangers of Quidditch.

Higgs's smile drops away as Madam Pomfrey leaves, and he lays a hand on Harry's leg, looking serious. "Any thoughts?" he asks.

Harry blinks at him, not really sure what he's talking about. Madam Pomfrey did something to dull the pain in his arm, but it's still a vague throbbing off to the side of his consciousness, just on this side of distracting. "On what?"

"On the bludger? I'm tempted to think it's the Weasley twins--"

"They would never."

"--but their little show before the match would have been a bit too suspicious, and they seem to genuinely like you. Enough not to try to murder you, at least. It could be someone who thinks you're the Heir, but that's a pretty public way to try to get rid of you, and I don't..." He shakes his head. "Maybe. But what do you think?"

Harry hesitates, glancing over to make sure Madam Pomfrey is still busy sorting through her potions, then says, "Over the summer, there was a house elf that was stealing my mail." Higgs's eyes narrow, but he doesn't interrupt, so Harry continues, "I got him to stop, but then he got me in trouble by using magic in my aunt and uncle's house to try to keep me from coming to Hogwarts. And then the barrier to the platform closed before Ron and I could get through."

"Do you know who's house elf it was?"

Relief hits Harry like an explosion in his chest, because someone believes him, and he has to swallow before he can say, "I don't."

"Someone wants to keep you out of Hogwarts, then, and they're willing to kill you to get you gone." Madam Pomfrey starts heading back over, and with a glance at her, Higgs says, "I'll let Snape know."

"Professor Snape won't--"

"He is your Head of House, and he is responsible for your safety." Higgs stands, smiling at Madam Pomfrey. "I'll let Harry rest," he says before she can yell at him.

Madam Pomfrey's face softens, and she says, "You can visit again after dinner, as long as you leave before curfew. And let your friends know as well, so I don't have people tromping in and out of here all afternoon. Mr. Potter needs his rest."

"Yes, ma'am," Higgs says diffidently, then grins at Harry over her shoulder and heads out of the Hospital Wing. Harry watches him go, wishing he wasn't being left alone with just Madam Pomfrey to fuss over him. Being stuck here all night is going to be so boring.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry wakes to a pop and the feeling of a wet cloth on his forehead. His arm doesn't hurt, but that's because it feels like he doesn't quite have an arm at the moment. He lurches upright, prying his eyes open past the grit glueing his eyelids shut, and there's a squeak nearby.

In front of him, just inches away--close enough he can see even in the dark without his glass--is Dobby, wet cloth clutched in one hand, eyes wide. Without looking away from Dobby, Harry fumbles for his glasses and wand, the former of which he jams on his face.

A tear is running down Dobby's face, and he looks like he's about to break into full-blown sobs. "Why has Harry Potter come to Hogwarts?" he whispers. "Dobby warned Harry Potter, and told Harry Potter of the danger, and made him miss his train, and he is still at the school."

"It _was_  you." Harry had thought it was, but now he has confirmation. "Why? Did your master order you to do it?"

"Dobby is going against his master," Dobby says, shaking his head. "Dobby had to iron his hands, Dobby did, but Dobby didn't care, because Dobby thought it would make Harry Potter safe, that it would keep him from the school, but he came to the school _anyway_." He's rocking back and forth now, bandaged hands clenching and unclenching. "When Dobby heard Harry Potter had come back to Hogwarts, he burned the Master's dinner, he was so surprised, and never such a flogging had he had. Burn the Master's dinner," he mutters, sounding disgusted. "A house elf, to burn the Master's dinner, and the Mistress's too."

He sniffles, blowing his nose on his filthy pillowcase, and Harry has an odd moment of connection with the house elf; he's been in clothing that looks like that, during summers when he spends his time gardening. "Why do you wear that? The pillowcase, I mean."

"This, sir?" Dobby plucks at the pillowcase. "'tis what all house elves wear, pillowcases or tea towels, because to give us clothes is to set us free, and so the family is careful not to even give Dobby a sock, sir, or else he would be free to leave." He lurches towards Harry. "Harry Potter must _not_  stay here, sir! Please, sir, Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough--"

Anger sparks--that Bludger could have killed him--and Harry demands, " _Your_  Bludger? All this talk about trying to save me, and you tried to kill me with a Bludger?"

Dobby shakes his head enthusiastically, ears flopping back and forth. "Not to kill, Harry Potter, sir, never to kill. Only to maim, sir, so that Harry Potter would _have_  to return home."

Going home injured would probably kill Harry, he thinks, but he doesn't say that. "Any chance you'll tell me _why_  you decided to try to maim me to get me sent home?"

Dobby starts crying at that again at that. "Harry Potter is a hero to house elves, sir. During the time of He Who Must Not Be Named, house elves were treated like vermin. Of course, Dobby is still treated like vermin, but we house elves talk, we do, and things have improved now, since Harry Potter's triumph over the Dark Lord, since his power was broken and he was gone, and it was a new dawn and Harry Potter a beacon of hope, and to lose Harry Potter now, to see history repeating itself with the Chamber of Secrets open again--"

"The Chamber of Secrets? You know something about it?"

Dobby stares at him, mouth agape, then grabs the full water pitcher, beams himself over the head with it, and topples out of sight, water splashing everywhere as he and the pitcher crash to the ground. Harry leans over the side of the bed to look at him, not sure what the hell just happened, but Dobby seems fine, or fine enough.

"What do you know?" Harry demands. Dobby bashes his head against the floor, and Harry lunges down to haul him up. "Stop hurting yourself and tell me what's going on."

"Dobby can't," Dobby says, tears running down his face. "Dobby wishes to but he can't, he has been ordered--Dobby cannot say. But Harry Potter must leave this place, please, for his own safety, he must."

"Dobby, it's urgent. I need to know, please. Who's opening the Cahmber of Secrets? You said again--did the same person open it before? Are we--I need to know, Dobby. One of my best friends is a muggleborn, and I--"

There are noises, and Dobby freezes, then says, "Dobby must go," and disappears with a soft pop.

Harry lays back down in bed and pulls the blanket back over himself just in time for the door to open and a tall sillhouette with a pointy hat to back into the room, a stretcher hovering in front of it. It's Dumbledore, he realizes after a second, wearing a dressing gown and a nightcap.

Professor McGonagall is on the other end of the stretcher, except it's not a stretcher, it's a statue--it's a person, and she's carrying its feet, and they set it down on the bed, and it's a _student_ , Harry thinks, shit it's a petrified student, and his first thought is that he hopes to god it's not Hermione.

There are exchanged whispers, and then McGonagall hurries past Harry, who closes his eyes hurriedly to feign sleep. He opens them again when he hears Madam Pomfrey hurry into the room, asking, "What happened?"

"Another attack," Dumbledore says, stepping back to let Pomfrey examine the student. "Minerva found him."

"We think he was coming to visit Potter," McGonagall says. "He's one of mine--Colin Creevey." Harry sees her lean over and touch Colin's forehead. "He had a bunch of grapes with him; he must have gotten from the house elves."

"Petrified?"

"Yes." McGonagall sighs. "The poor boy." Dumbledore pries the camera out of Colin's hand. "Do you think he could have gotten a picture of his attacker?"

Without a word, Dumbledore opens up the back of the camera; the smell of burnt plastic hits Harry from his bed, and he turns his head into the pillow so he doesn't have to put a hand over his nose. 

"I suspect," Dumbledore says quietly, "that we are unlikely to ever have a picture of this attacker."

"Do you have any thoughts, Albus?"

"None that are worth sharing at this moment." Dumbledore taps on the camera. "You know as well as I, Minerva--the Chamber has been opened before, and a girl died."

"But there are none who could--"

"There are always those who could," Dumbledore says heavily. "The question, however, is how."

\--

Higgs comes and finds Harry in the Hospital Wing in the morning; he looks surprised to see Harry awake, but Harry hasn't slept much since Colin was brought in. He doesn't know why Colin would come to bring him something, but he knows the kid has some weird hero worship of him. He doesn't really get it--Colin is a muggleborn and must have only heard of him when he learned about Hogwarts--but he's realized he'll just never understand this sort of stuff.

"You've heard, then," Higgs says.

Harry gestures towards the bed where Colin is; there are curtains drawn around it so Colin's body isn't visible. "I woke up when they brought him in." 

Higgs sits down on the bed next to Harry. "How's your arm?"

"It's fine." Harry finishes tying his shoes, then looks over at Higgs. "Not that I mind you coming to see me, but what are you doing here?"

Higgs hestitates, then says, "They think you did it. Colin."

"How? I was in here the whole time." Harry stands, his temper flaring. "And Colin's a little annoying, but he's harmless, and I wouldn't hurt a kid. Not that I would hurt anyone, and I'm not the bloody Heir of Slytherin, anyway."

Harry is shouting by the end of it, and Higgs hurries to his feet to clamp a hand over Harry's mouth. "Do you _want_  Pomfrey showing up?" he hisses. "I don't think you're the Heir of Slytherin."

"Why are you here, then?"

Higgs looks away, pulling his hand away from Harry's mouth. "I don't think you're the Heir of Slytherin, but a lot of people do, and many of them are none too fond of you. So until a formal buddy system is announced by the prefects, I'm going to be here to disuade people from hexing you in the hallway."

"Are you ever going to explain what your deal is? Why you're so invested in keeping me safe?"

"You mean other than the fact that you're a twelve-year-old who nearly got himself killed last year and who people seem to be trying to kill again, and for no clear reason our Head of House doesn't seem to give a shit?" Higgs chews on his lip. "Okay, you know what, come with me. I don't want to talk about it here."

Harry follows him through the hallway; Higgs walks with his left arm around Harry's shoulders, his wand out in his hand. "You know you'll be in trouble if you hex someone, right?" Harry says.

"Not if they hex us first." Higgs tilts his head. "Or, well, less so if they hex us first, and depending on which teacher finds us." He pushes open the door to a deserted classroom, pulling Harry into it and closing the door behind him.

"Okay," Higgs says, pulling away from Harry. "How much do you know about my family?"

"Er." Harry fiddles with his wand in his pocket. "Nothing, sorry. I mean other than that...you exist."

Higgs laughs. "Okay, fair, Potter. I have an little brother. I had an little brother. He--" Higgs turns away, scraping his hand through his hair. "He was a squib."

"I don't--"

"No magic. It's, uh--someone born of magical parents but without the ability to do magic themselves. It's the dirty secret of magical families, that kids are born like that. Purebloods in particular, they don't like acknowledging that it's possible for them to throw a squib, that their line can be dirtied by--" He shakes his head, turning back to look at Harry. "Anyway. My brother was squib, and I couldn't keep him safe. Not from the world, not from my parents." He strides towards Harry, reaching out to grip his shoulder. "I know what it looks like. Whatever the fuck your guardians are doing to you, I watched that my parents do that to my brother, and I couldn't keep him safe, and so I'm going to keep you safe."

"Your brother--"

"He would have been eleven this year, except he drowned in our lake when my parents dropped him in there to try to bring his magic out three years ago. So I'm not going fish another body out of a lake, and I'm not going to watch you not come back one year because your guardians did whatever they do to you, and so I'm going to walk you through these halls and keeps my wand out and get put in detention if I need to." He shakes Harry's shoulder. "Do you understand that? Fuck all of them, fuck all of them who talk about dirty blood, fuck all of them who think about going after you, I'm going to keep you safe."

Harry gapes at him, not sure what he's supposed to say. _I'm sorry_ , maybe, or _thank you_ , or _what the fuck_ , but none of those come out, and after a second, Higgs steps back, his expression shuttering closed.

"Breakfast," Higgs says decisively. "I don't want to deal with this on an empty stomach."

\--

The Great Hall is tense; everybody clearly knows about Colin, or at least knows something happened, and Higgs's hand is a steel grip on his shoulder as they walk to an empty spot near the end of the table.

But Draco smiles at Harry when they sit down--which is not hugely reassuring--and Blaise looks about as uncaring as usual as he shovels down food, and Higgs manages to untense enough to get down some toast.

"How'd you do it?" Draco asks, leaning across the table towards Harry like he's expecting Harry to tell him some big secret. "I heard Pomfrey has something to notify her when someone leaves the Hospital Wing, and the Creevey mu-muggleborn was found outside of the Hospital Wing. Coming to bother you, I heard, so I can't really blame you, but I want to know _how_."

Harry pushes up his glasses to rub at his eyes. He's starting to get a headache, and he just wants to go be somewhere else, somewhere where nobody is staring at him. "I didn't do anything to Creevey. I wouldn't."

Draco laughs. "Sure. But really, Potter, just tell me how you managed it."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Harry can't stand to stomach another bite of sausage, so he stands, pushing away from the table. Higgs sighs, but stands with him, jamming half a sausage in his mouth as he grabs a piece of toast. "I don't know why you think it's funny that a kid got hurt, but it's not, and I'm not going to sit here and play along." He looks at Higgs. "You don't have to follow me."

"Sure I don't," Higgs says around his mouthful of sausage, then grabs another sausage with the same hand holding the toast, pulls out his wand with his other hand, and starts walking. "Come on, Potter."

Everyone watches them as they walk out of the Great Hall, and Harry sees Ron and Hermione jump up to hurry over to them. Higgs looks like they make him nervous, and they look like he makes them nervous, but he doesn't pulls his wand on them when they join them at the entrance to the Great Hall.

"How--" Ron glances at Higgs. "How are you? How's your arm?"

"It's fine." Harry shakes it a little; it feels off, but just slightly, and it's okay. "Is, um--Creevey is one of yours, right? A Gryffindor, I mean."

"Yeah," Ron says, "but we didn't really know him, you know. It's not like we hang out with the first years. Ginny's pretty messed up about it, though."

Higgs glances at Hermione, who looks nervous and a little drawn. "I'd be careful, if I were you."

Ron's face floods with red. "Is that a threat?"

Higgs gives him a scornful look, so sharp that the red receeds into something paler. "A threat to, what, exactly?"

"Thank you," Hermione says. "I guess Slytherin doesn't...doesn't have many muggleborns."

"A few," Higgs disagrees. He ruffles Harry's hair. "Keep your wand out and don't let yourself get backed into a corner. I'll leave you to your friends now, but I'm serious, Potter, don't go wandering alone."

He heads off down the hallway, glancing back once, and Hermione and Ron immediately turn to stare at Harry.

"What's going on?" Ron demands. "What's he--what did he want?"

Harry shakes his head. "It's fine. He just thinks people are going to go after me because they think I hurt Creevey."

"Are they?"

Harry shrugs, not really sure and not really wanting to talk about it. Higgs is bad enough; he doesn't need Ron and Hermione worrying about him, too. Even if someone does go after him, it can't be too much worse than what Dudley and his friends did, and he doesn't think the Slytherins will go after him, so at least he doesn't need to worry about whether or not it's okay to sleep there.

And he knows how to sleep lightly, if need be, and how to take a hit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I've had like 2400 words of this written for literally months, and I finally just gave in and finished the chapter.


End file.
